Misunderstanding science?

The public reconstruction of science and technology

Misunderstanding science?
The public reconstruction of science and technology

EDITED BY ALAN IRWIN

Reader in Sociology, Brunei University

AND

BRIAN WYNNE
Professor of Science Studies, Lancaster University

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First published 1996

First paperback edition 2003

A catalogue recordfor this book is available from the British Library

Library of Congress Cataloguing in Publication data

Misunderstanding science? The public reconstruction of science
and technology / edited by Alan Irwin and Brian Wynne.
p. cm.
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 0 521 43268 5 hardback
1. Science - Social aspects. 2. Science news. I. Irwin, Alan, 1955- . II. Wynne, Brian, 1947-
Q175.5.M58 1996
306.4'5-dc20 95-32980 CIP

ISBN 0 52143268 5 hardback

ISBN 0 52152520 9 paperback
 Contents

Acknowledgements vii
Introduction ALAN IRWIN AND BRIAN WYNNE I

1 Misunderstood misunderstandings: social identities and public uptake of 19

science
BRIAN WYNNE

2 Science and Hell's kitchen: the local understanding of hazard issues 47

ALAN IRWIN, ALISON DALE, AND DENIS SMITH

3 Disembodied knowledge? Making sense of medical science 65

HELEN LAMBERT AND HILARY ROSE

4 Now you see it, now you don't: mediating science and managing un- 84
certainty in reproductive medicine
FRANCES PRICE

5 Ignoring science: discourses of ignorance in the public understanding of 107

science
MIKE MICHAEL

6 Insiders and outsiders: identifying experts on home ground 126

ROSEMARY McKECHNIE

7 Authorising science: public understanding of science in museums 152

SHARON MACDONALD

8 Nature's advocates: putting science to work in environmental 172

organisations
STEVEN YEARLEY

9 Proteins, plants, and currents: rediscovering science in Britain 191

HARRY ROTHMAN, PETER GLASNER, AND CAMERON ADAMS
vi Contents

Conclusions ALAN IRWIN AND BRIAN WYNNE 213

Notes on contributors 222

Select bibliography 226

Index 230
 Acknowledgements

The research in this volume was supported by the Economic and Social Research
Council/Science Policy Support Group research programme in the 'public under-
standing of science'. The contributors wish to express their gratitude for the funding
and assistance which was offered by this programme. Of course, this does not mean
that either of these bodies should be held responsible for any errors or deficiencies
in the accounts which follow. The editors would also like to thank Gillian Maude
for her assistance.
 Introduction
ALAN IRWIN AND BRIAN WYNNE

One of the most routine observations about modern life concerns the rapid pace of
technical change and the consequences of this for every aspect of society. Of course,
this is not just a phenomenon of the 1990s. The social impact of ceaselessly changing
science and technology has been a classical theme of writers, social scientists and
scientists since the Industrial Revolution. Generally, the tone has been deterministic,
suggesting that science and technology have their own objective logic to which society
must adapt as best it can.
However, the relationship between scientific expertise and the 'general public' is
currently a matter of renewed attention and social concern. Although the dominant
form of this renewed interest is shaped by anxieties about the 'social assimilation'
of science and technology (i.e. by a concern that the public are insufficiently receptive
to science and technology), we will argue that this conceals a more fundamental
issue regarding the public identity and organisation of science within contemporary
society.
This edited collection focuses on one important aspect of this wider theme; the
contemporary issue of what has become known as the 'public understanding of sci-
ence'. As the following chapters demonstrate, this has become something of a fulcrum
for debates over the social negotiation of power and social order in relation to science
and technology. In this Introduction, we will first set the scene for the detailed
analyses which follow and then explain the particular approach to this debate which
has been adopted here. As this book demonstrates, concern with 'public understand-
ing' takes us into many areas of case-study and socio-technical inquiry - it is thus
all the more important to establish from the outset the major interlinkages and
connections.
The main themes of this book can best be introduced through some specific
instances. Certainly, and as the chapters of this book will argue, the often-problematic
relationship between 'expert knowledge' and the 'public' typically emerges in every-
day life as part of particular issues.
The debate over civil nuclear power is often presented by the nuclear industry
and government agencies as a division between nuclear 'experts' and an emotional
 2 ALAN IRWIN AND BRIAN WYNNE

public. Accordingly, public education is seen as the best way to win over support -
if only people knew the facts then they would not worry unduly. However, this
commitment to 'educating' the public is not just limited to the pro-nuclear lobby.
Environmentalist groups also are keen to disseminate the 'real facts' about nuclear
power. On each side, technical arguments are central to the debate. Meanwhile, the
public are confronted with conflicting technical assessments of nuclear risk offered
by groups who each claim a special understanding of the 'facts'. In each case also,
these technical assessments represent an important part of the attempt to win over
public opinion to a particular stance on the nuclear issue.
A similar analysis can be made of the 1990 debate over what became christened
'mad cow disease' (but known in scientific discussions as BSE - Bovine Spongiform
Encephalopathy). Here, we had statements from the British Department of Health
and also from distinguished figures such as Professor Sir Richard Southwood
informing the public that the risks of BSE were tiny. As Sir Richard argued, 'we
have more reason to be concerned about being struck by lightning than catching
BSE from eating beef and other products from cattle.'1
Meanwhile, public concern was high - as indicated by the sudden drop in meat
sales accompanied by a steep rise in media attention. Despite the official statements
on BSE and the claims that scientific evidence suggested the risks to be small, two
aspects of the public debate were very apparent. Firstly, that - as with the nuclear
issue - scientific opinion was by no means unanimous (with Professor Richard Lacey,
for example, taking a public stand against the 'official' position). Secondly, as the
House of Commons Select Committee on Agriculture observed, 'Scientists do not
automatically command public trust.' 2
This was to become a very familiar message with regard to BSE. Accordingly,
whilst there was much criticism of the general public for their 'emotive and irrational'
response to the risks of BSE, we also begin to see that there may be some more
complex social relationships at work (for example, concerning the basis of trust in
scientific expertise). Nevertheless, what seems unavoidably true is that scientific argu-
ment was central to the 'mad cow' debate - with public groups and individuals being
obliged to respond to the technical debate either by acceptance or rejection. Going
further, we can discern that various forms of scientific evidence were used to defend
public stances on BSE. We also see in a case like this that personal decisions must
be taken in the face of conflicting technical claims and apparent uncertainties. Quite
clearly, therefore, scientific arguments play an important role in structuring (or
'framing') the conduct of public debate. Equally, we can suggest that science is itself
framed by unstated social commitments.
This role of science in 'framing' public debate, and the implicit social framing of
science itself, will be a major theme of the coming chapters. We will argue that
science in this way offers a framework which is unavoidably social as well as technical
 Introduction 3

since in public domains scientific knowledge embodies implicit models or assump-

tions about the social world. In addition, as an intervention in public life, scientific
knowledge involves rhetorical claims to the superiority of the scientific worldview
but also it builds upon social processes of trust and credibility. Thus, whilst claiming
to stand apart from the rest of society, science will reflect social interests and social
assumptions.
Other examples of the 'public understanding of science in action' could readily
be highlighted at this stage; debates over biotechnology and concerns over new repro-
ductive technologies; advice on HIV/AIDS and 'safe sex'; discussions over infor-
mation technology and its impact on jobs, skills, and the quality of life; pollution
and hazard issues; global environmental change; medical problems, childbirth, and
contraception; food safety and occupational health. In all these - and many more -
areas, some kind of interchange exists between scientific assessments and public
actions and responses. This very pervasiveness of'expertise' makes the 'public under-
standing of science' an important area for discussion and analysis even though it
means that the debate also becomes very broad-ranging, ill-defined, and at times
slippery. Equally, we should note that various sociological accounts of our current
social structure - often described as late- or new-modernity - stress the centrality
and pervasiveness of technical expertise.3
Even more importantly, in all these areas social as well as technical judgements
must be made - the 'facts' cannot stand apart from wider social, economic, and
moral questions even if rhetorically they are often put forward as if this were the
case. We can readily gather on the basis of the discussion so far that the relationship
between science and the public may not be so straightforward as suggested in the
conventional treatment which assumes a clear boundary between 'facts' and 'values'.
However, as has already been suggested, concern over the public understanding
of science - either from the viewpoint of public groups or of scientists - is nothing
new. Layton, for example, has shown how nineteenth-century concerns to advance
public scientific literacy were imbued with an underlying anxiety to impart a particu-
lar worldview, one which would maintain social order and the legitimation of state
institutions. Berg has analysed the Mechanics Institute movement in Britain (in the
1820s and 1830s) in similar terms.4
From another perspective, in the period around the Second World War the 'visible
college' of left-wing scientists argued the need for a greater citizen awareness of
science.5 As J. B. S. Haldane put it in his 1939 book, Science and Everyday Life;
The ordinary man must know something about various branches of science, for the
same reason that the astronomer, even if his eyes are fixed on higher things must know
about boots. The reason is that these matters affect his everyday life.6

Here we see one blunt statement of the public need to understand science - even
 4 ALAN IRWIN AND BRIAN WYNNE

if the 'higher things' pun also implies a notion of the inherent superiority of the
scientific worldview over the shoemaker's craft (not an unusual nuance in scientific
discussion of the 'ordinary person').
Writing immediately after the Second World War, the Association of Scientific
Workers expressed similar sentiments in their programmatic Science and the Nation.
Their argument for the scientific education of the public drew upon three of the
most commonly stated justifications for an 'improved' public understanding:
• that a technically literate population is essential for future workforce
requirements;
• that science is now an essential part of our cultural understanding;
• that greater public understanding of science is essential for a modern democ-
racy . . .
If responsibility . . . rests ultimately on the citizen - as in a democracy it must - then
the citizen must be aware of and evaluate the technical as well as social aspects of the
problem. Democracy needs a greater technical awareness, a rise in the standards of
social and technical thinking.7

We notice here that in all this debate 'science' itself is constructed as unproblematic -
its epistemic commitments, social purposes, institutional structures, intellectual
boundaries and relationship with 'non-science'. This treatment of science has cer-
tainly been carried forward into the modern debate over 'public understanding'. A
further issue which is central to this book - but which is generally concealed within
this debate - concerns the meaning of 'understanding'. Most often, this is seen to
equal faithful assimilation of the available scientific knowledges including their fram-
ing assumptions and commitments.
In order to pursue their goal of greater public understanding of science, the
Association of Scientific Workers made a number of recommendations concerning
the 'broadening' of education through further education classes and such media as
exhibitions and museums, film, the press, and radio. They also made a plea for
working scientists to become more involved in public activities.
Although there were sporadic outbursts in-between, the debate over 'public under-
standing of science' re-emerged particularly strongly in 1985 with the publication
of a Royal Society report on the subject - suggesting both the durability of these
issues and the perceived absence of substantial progress. It was also in the 1980s
that the UK Royal Society and the American Association for the Advancement of
Science formed their respective Committees for the Public Understanding of Sci-
ence, thus institutionalising the subject.
The Royal Society considered the significance of this issue in terms which are
highly reminiscent of the Association of Scientific Workers - except for the absence
of socialist rhetoric. The Royal Society report instead presents itself as concerned
 Introduction 5

with the general well-being of both science and society. However, the argument put
forward by the Royal Society would surely have been endorsed by the Association
of Scientific Workers:
A basic thesis of this report is that the better public understanding of science can be a
major element in promoting national prosperity, in raising the quality of public and
private decision-making and in enriching the life of the individual . . . Improving the
public understanding of science is an investment in the future, not a luxury to be
indulged in if and when resources allow.8

This theme has been more recently endorsed by the UK Government in its 1993
White Paper on Science Policy.9
Since the Royal Society report served as a stimulus to the work in this volume -
and since accordingly it will be referred to directly in a number of chapters - it is
worth discussing it here in a little detail.
The Royal Society cites a number of specific areas where an 'improved under-
standing' would be of personal and national value. In many ways, this list represents
an elaboration of the justifications given earlier by the Association of Scientific Work-
ers. The need for a wider public understanding is justified in terms of:
• national prosperity (for example, a better-trained workforce),
• economic performance (for example, beneficial effect on innovation),
• public policy (informing public decisions),
• personal decisions (for example, over diet, tobacco or vaccination),
• everyday life (for example, understanding what goes on around us),
• risk and uncertainty (for example, concerning nuclear power or BSE),
• contemporary thought and culture (science as a rich area of human inquiry
and discovery).
In each of these areas, improved technical understanding would enrich society and
improve the quality of decision-making.
Better overall understanding of science would, in our view, significantly improve the
quality of public decision-making, not because the 'right' decisions would then be
made, but because decisions made in the light of an adequate understanding of the
issues are likely to be better than decisions made in the absence of such an
understanding.10

This is, of course, a powerful argument which could be directly applied to the cases
of BSE and nuclear power as previously discussed - a scientific understanding will
illuminate the possibilities for action and allow a more considered response to every-
day technical questions and problems. On this basis, the Royal Society advocated a
series of changes within the education system, parliamentary bodies, the mass media,
industry, and - especially - among scientists themselves in improving the current
 6 ALAN IRWIN AND BRIAN WYNNE

situation. Interestingly also, the Royal Society envisaged a role for social science
research in this area - particularly in terms of gauging the present level of public
understanding (or ignorance) of science, assessing the effects of improved under-
standing, and discovering from where individuals currently obtain technical advice
and information. In an indirect fashion, the chapters in this collection represent a
response to this demand for social scientific analysis. However, as we will now con-
sider, the perspective adopted in this book diverges sharply from that of the Royal
Society.
In particular, we can see certain assumptions embedded in the approaches to
'public understanding of science' considered so far - both as demonstrated by general
accounts (such as that provided by the Royal Society) and also within contemporary
controversies (for example, over BSE). First of all, there is an apparent assumption
of 'public ignorance' in matters of science and technology - an assumption which
has been bolstered by recent questionnaire surveys. According to these, the general
public often lacks a basic understanding of scientific facts, theories and method-
ologies. Public controversy over technical issues is created by inadequate public
understandings rather than the operation of science itself. This projection of a 'public
ignorance' model also serves to problematise the general public rather than the oper-
ation of scientists and scientific institutions - just why aren't the public more
responsive?
Secondly, there is an assumption that science is an important force for human
improvement and that it offers a uniquely privileged view of the everyday world.
Thus, the Nobel prize-winner Max Perutz approvingly quotes Nehru in his comba-
tively entitled book, Is Science Necessary}:
It is science alone that can solve the problems of hunger and poverty, of insanity and
illiteracy, of superstition and deadening custom and tradition, of vast resources running
to waste, of a rich country inhabited by starving people . . . Who indeed could afford
to ignore science today? At every turn we have to seek its aid . . . The future belongs
to science and those who make friends with science. 11

Finally, science is portrayed in these accounts as if it were a value-free and neutral

activity. Science illuminates and assists - it does not constrict or legitimate. Equally,
the conditions under which scientific knowledges are constructed and validated are
not challenged by the Royal Society. Science is unproblematically 'scientific' - it
represents the only valid way of apprehending nature.
These points are, of course, important at a time when science is actually under
criticism from a number of directions, and is generally suffering a marked lack of
public support when it tries to rally a defence against outside attacks. Thus, whilst
from the perspective presented so far science is the potential saviour of society, more
critical voices have portrayed science as a major cause of ecological damage, military
threats, constraints on personal liberty, and social disruption. In that sense also, it
 Introduction 7

can be argued that the 'public understanding of science' represents an attempt by

scientific institutions to regain their social standing and status in the face of public
criticisms. As one of us has previously argued:
the re-emergence of the public understanding of science issue in the mid-1980s can be
seen as part of the scientific establishment's anxious response to a legitimation vacuum
which threatened the well-being and social standing of science.12

This 'institutional neurosis' of science over public identification and legitimation is

not by any means a new phenomenon. On the contrary, it appears to be a chronic
condition throughout the history of science - albeit at a varying level of anxiety.
The recent re-emergence of the issue thus calls for a deeper reflection than has so
far taken place.
The chapters in this book seek to move the analysis of 'public understanding of
science' away from the prevailing science-centred framework as sketched so far (and
also from a simple oppositional or 'anti-science' stance). Instead of assuming that
the problem is only or mainly with the public, we examine both the operation of
scientific expertises/institutions and different 'publics' in relation to one another.
This relational focus is especially important within the following accounts. In doing
so, we interpret both 'science' and the 'general public' as diverse, shifting and often-
diverging categories. We also adopt a critical-reflective stance on the current debates
over public understanding of science in order to consider their motivation and under-
lying concerns. The general argument in this book is that we need to rethink and
reconceptualise the relationships between 'science' and the 'public' if we are to make
progress at the level either of understanding or practical intervention.
This process of rethinking the public understanding of science should begin with
our notion of science. Contrary to the kinds of division and contradiction which are
found in such cases as civil nuclear power and BSE, the image of science which is
generally presented within the 'public understanding of science' is of a unified,
cleanly bounded, and clear body of knowledge and method. We also need to consider
the nature not only of 'scientific institutions' (i.e. those bodies directly concerned
with the funding, management, and implementation of science and technology), but
also of the much larger category of institutions within society which draw upon or
exploit science as a source of defence, legitimation or profit (for example, to return
to the examples at the start of this chapter, the nuclear and food industries and the
related government departments).
In this book, we will draw upon the last two decades of research within the
sociology of scientific knowledge which has convincingly demonstrated the socially
negotiated nature of science.13 This resource is needed in order to examine the varying
(i.e. heterogeneous) constructions and representations of science and to consider the
relationship between these representations and the social institutions which employ
 8 ALAN IRWIN AND BRIAN WYNNE

scientific discourses and arguments. Thus, science will not be represented as a simple
'body of facts' or as a given 'method', but as a much more diffuse collection of
institutions, areas of specialised knowledge and theoretical interpretations whose
forms and boundaries are open to negotiation with other social institutions and forms
of knowledge.
It will, therefore, be apparent in what follows that we are not counter-posing a
homogeneous body of 'science' against a more diverse array of 'public understand-
ings'. Instead, we portray both 'public' and 'scientific' knowledges as building upon
wider commitments and assumptions. Implicit in our collection is that only a prop-
erly sociological approach to contemporary science can give us a real insight into
the issues of 'public understanding'. Otherwise, we are doomed to a sterile and even
counter-productive juxtaposition of 'science' against 'non-science' rather than an
appreciation of the diversity and social interdependence of different forms of science,
knowledge and expertise.
Of particular relevance within this book will be the manner in which scientific
boundaries are established and maintained, i.e. the way in which 'science' is separated
from 'non-science' or 'everyday knowledge'. By analysing contemporary science from
this perspective, we can consider the different faces which science presents to the
wider public. A key part of this is how 'constructions of society' (for example, tacit
assumptions about users or audiences) are embedded within, and shape, scientific
constructs. We can also examine how assumptions are made or decisions taken about
which aspects of science to highlight to particular audiences. Going further, we can
consider how different social groups recruit scientific arguments in order to support
their case (a process which is quite evident in cases such as nuclear energy or mad
cow disease). We can also consider how what counts as 'science' may be shaped by
social relations and institutional structures so that the very constitution of science
will reflect wider social interests.
Put simply, the research in this collection will move beyond a mere problematis-
ation of the public. Instead, we will consider the operation of science in everyday
situations - and, in particular, the different forms and representations of science
which confront public groups. This point will be important in terms of the analysis
which follows. It will also lead us to consider not just the 'public understanding of
science' but also the scientific understanding of the public and the manner in which
that latter understanding might be enhanced. We assert that this perspective is essen-
tial to the expressed goal of improving public uptake and 'understanding' of science,
since without such a reflexive dimension scientific approaches to the 'public under-
standing' issue will only encourage public ambivalence or even alienation.
Rather than assuming from the beginning of discussion, therefore, that science
unconditionally deserves privileged status, we need to consider just how relevant
and important scientific understanding is within everyday life. To accept science as
 Introduction 9

a key resource in public issues is radically different from accepting its automatic
authority in framing what the issues are. Scientific approaches typically confuse these
fundamentally different dimensions. This requires a problematising of what is actu-
ally meant by 'scientific understanding' in various contexts. We will also - especially
in the concluding chapter - look again at the consequences of our new approach for
the organisation of science.
This critical treatment of science will be matched in the following accounts by
an awareness of the diversity of public groups. As we have already suggested, scientific
statements about 'public understanding' tend to draw upon some notion of the typical
citizen (i.e. Haldane's 'ordinary man'). Very little justification is given for this por-
trayal - instead, the public is portrayed as a homogeneous mass which needs to be
rendered more receptive to the insights of science. The 'public' exist as an audience
for science; they are an object rather than a subject. At this stage, we need to remem-
ber Raymond Williams' observation: 'there are in fact no masses, but only ways of
seeing people as masses'.14
Rather than simply adopting this 'top-down' and dissemination-oriented model,
much of the research in this book takes a very sensitive and careful look at the
publics for science and considers their needs and interpretations. It also, crucially,
is alive to the ways in which scientific knowledge frequently embodies tacit commit-
ments about audiences or user-situations which may then serve as unnegotiated social
prescriptions. Several of the chapters also examine non-scientific forms of knowledge
and expertise (for example, those generated by direct and practical experience of
scientific or technological systems) and their relationship to formalised under-
standings.
Viewed from this perspective, important issues of trust and credibility arise - why
should we believe something just because it claims to be scientific? What kind of
social relationship or identity is being tacitly proposed, or imposed, within scientific
communications?
We also need to consider the ways in which personal understandings of the world
(and previous experiences) fit together with scientific accounts - 'making sense' of
new information is revealed to be a complex process which is likely to draw upon
a series of sources. We see, too, that, specific publics are likely to be sceptical, critical
or simply hostile to scientific statements - often because such statements seem to
emerge from an idealised and inappropriate model of real world conditions. We may
also find a resistance to the perceived social interests which are embedded in scientific
statements - as when science is used for the legitimation of industrial practices (for
example, the continued operation of hazardous industries). Taken together, we will
replace the notion of 'public ignorance' with a much richer pattern of social relations
and personal understandings.
In seeking to reconsider both 'science' and 'the public', we must also examine
 10 ALAN IRWIN AND BRIAN WYNNE

the kinds of mediating institution which currently convey scientific argumentation to

the general public. What kinds of institution are these and how do they select the
forms of technical appraisal for dissemination? These 'mediating institutions' take a
number of forms - environmental groups, local industry, the mass media, the organ-
isers of science exhibitions, government officials, doctors - but they offer important
routes to the public's experience and understanding of science. What issues arise
from the operation of these groups which deserve attention here? We must ask also
whether these institutions stand apart from the conventional model of science-public
relations or whether they can offer new, and perhaps more effective, patterns of
cultural and knowledge relations.
Finally, each of the chapters has implications for practical interventions in this area.
In the concluding chapter, we will address this theme directly - what are the policy
implications of the new approach to 'public understanding' which has been developed
in this collection?
Why then choose such an apparently cryptic title for this book? Of course, Misun-
derstanding science? runs the risk of reinforcing the very notion that we have already
tried so hard to dispel, i.e. that the problem is one of the public 'misunderstanding'
science (what we can call the 'deficit' model as discussed, for example, in Chapters
Two and Five). However, our title also suggests the opposite - that it is science
which misunderstands both the public and itself. Given that most discussion in this
area has stressed the former kind of misunderstanding, our collection will give par-
ticular attention to the latter.
Our sub-title reinforces this emphasis by suggesting the active processes through
which people 'reconstruct' technical information within everyday life. We will, there-
fore, be particularly concerned with the different 'senses' which science presents and
also with the way in which the 'cloth of meaning' (see Chapter Three) is woven and
rewoven. For the contributors to this book, the 'reconstruction' of science within
everyday life is an active and often-demanding process. As we will see, public groups
often show great resourcefulness in carrying out this essential task - a resourcefulness
which frequently makes scientific messages appear simplistic and one-dimensional.

Book structure
As has already been suggested, the chapters in this book are designed not to docu-
ment nor explain the 'public misunderstanding of science', but to explore the specific
contexts within which different kinds of technical judgement are reached by 'lay'
publics. Put differently, we need to examine how different publics succeed or other-
wise in 're-constructing' science as part of their own agendas. In tackling this, we
will observe the limitations of scientific information in terms of everyday decisions
 Introduction 11

and consider the role of social and political judgement in making practical use of
science.
As we have argued so far, this citizen-oriented perspective offers considerably
richer insights into the role of science within everyday life than the simplistic and
technocratic assertion that 'more science must be better'. However, such a perspec-
tive requires considerable sensitivity to the knowledges and understandings possessed
by citizens within specific situations and contexts. In order to develop this perspec-
tive, the various authors within this book have adopted a detailed, context-specific
and local analysis of 'public understanding' rather than large-scale surveys or sweep-
ing generalisations. However, a series of common analytical questions recur through-
out these case-studies;
• what do people mean by 'science' and 'scientific expertise'?
• where do they turn for technical information and advice?
• what motivates them to do so?
• how do they select from, evaluate and use scientific information?
• how do they relate this expert advice to everyday experience and other forms
of knowledge? What is involved in its integration at this level?
These questions will run through a series of detailed investigations - covering such
areas as scientific researchers and policy-makers, medical patients and their families,
communities around hazardous industrial sites, environmentalist groups, Cumbrian
hill farmers coping with radioactive fall-out, museum staff, and visitors.
It should also be explained that these studies all began as part of one Economic
and Social Research Council (ESRC) and Science Policy Support Group (SPSG)
programme within the 'public understanding of science' (not least so that we can
gratefully acknowledge the assistance and support provided especially by the SPSG).
Thus, whilst the case-studies and research questions may vary from chapter to chap-
ter, they do share a framework of analysis and understanding which has developed
over a considerable period of time.
In stating this, we are aware that this range of study areas, and the very diffuseness
of the 'public understanding of science' as an area of research and practice, may
stretch the task of synthesis to the very limit. It would be quite wrong for us to
pretend that all of these chapters fit neatly into a logical and coherent ordering.
Whilst - as we have already argued - there is considerable thematic and analytical
overlap in what follows, there is also a diversity of perspective and focus - not least
because of the diversity of contributors to this book (see the 'Notes on contributors').
The area of analysis presented in this book contains a fresh approach and a new
way of thinking about the sciences and their publics. It is only right, therefore, that
there will be differences of emphasis and argument in what follows. We do not wish
to conceal these or to consider their existence as an intellectual (or editorial)
 12 ALAN IRWIN AND BRIAN WYNNE

weakness - instead, Misunderstanding science? includes a range of contributors who,

whilst agreeing on the broad framework of analysis, span a range of social scientific
perspectives. We intend to offer in this collection both a fresh line of analysis and
also a diversity of specific analyses. Furthermore, we feel it necessary to grasp some-
thing of the different social contexts within which the science-public relationship is
encountered and negotiated.
Specific chapters within this collection focus on the nature of interactions between
scientific representations and public responses. Others attempt to illustrate the con-
structed, contextual nature of scientific accounts. The final chapters look to the
changing framework for science-public relations.
The first chapters present a strong set of 'contexts' for the public understanding
of science. Brian Wynne presents an evocative example of one area of science-public
interactions; the case of Cumbrian sheep-farmers in the wake of the Chernobyl disas-
ter. Wynne analyses the relationship between the understandings and expertises held
by the sheep-farmers and those of the official bodies who were attempting to control
the sale and movement of radiation-contaminated sheep. Wynne raises questions of
the construction and application of scientific knowledges in this specific context. He
also discusses the robust views of local people when confronted with this kind of
'laboratory science'. The main points of this case-study are to elucidate the complex
factors affecting the public credibility and uptake of scientific knowledge, and to
highlight science as a culture involving its own pre-commitments and prescriptions
beneath specific claims and 'facts'. Wynne argues that this is a general condition and
that public responses originate at this level as well as that of specific claims.
The following chapter develops some similar arguments in a very different social
context; the case of local communities living with the routine risk and pollution from
the chemical industry. Even in this less coherent and less tightly defined social set-
ting, Irwin, Dale, and Smith discover a critical public response to technical advice
and information. Once again, and very importantly for this collection, science 'disap-
pears' into the everyday life of this community - on the face of it, the official com-
munications and public reactions have little or nothing to do with science, nor indeed
does science figure as a part of everyday discussion about local hazards. However,
as the authors argue, implicit models of technical expertise are employed to legitimate
industrial assessments of risk. Such expertise is then met with a questioning and
often sceptical local audience.
This 'disappearance' of science within specific contexts of action and understand-
ing is a recurrent theme of Misunderstanding science} From the perspective of influen-
tial scientific institutions such as the Royal Society, science should be centre-stage
within important areas of everyday life such as issues of risk and pollution. Certainly,
science is drawn upon by industrial and government organisations as a source of
rhetorical and ideological support for particular social practices - for example, in
 Introduction 13

the case of Chapter Two, with regard to the operation of hazardous industries close
to areas of housing. However, from the viewpoint of citizen groups, science may be
much less significant than matters of trust, powerlessness and contextually generated
expertises. The 'disappearance' of science does not mean that it serves an unimport-
ant role in such situations - it is more that 'science' as a category blurs into other
areas of social practice and contestation.
Within this context, the credibility and perceived 'knowledgeability' of different
local information sources become an important point of community discussion and
response. As with the sheep-farmers case, we see the publics of science to be active
rather than passive in their response to official information. The publics are engaged
in defining their relationships with science - demarcating its meanings, boundaries,
and utility within their particular social situation. In both cases also, we see the
practical difficulties and uncertainties experienced by science when applied to specific
social contexts.
The third and fourth chapters of Misunderstanding science? focus on the public
response to one very immediate and personal area of encounter with expertise -
medicine and medical science. Lambert and Rose consider the ways in which patients
with a particular genetic metabolic disorder 'make sense' of the medical science which
they encounter. As the authors suggest, the 'scientific' nature of this interaction is
all the greater since the disorder generally does not produce obvious external signs
of 'disease'. Instead, those with this condition must somehow 'weave the cloth of
meaning' from various expert accounts. The study accordingly focuses on the integ-
ration of science into everyday life and, in common with many other studies in
this collection, examines the contested, provisional, and situated nature of scientific
accounts. Despite this, where a public group has a strong motivation to acquire
information, we see just how skilled and resourceful it can be in sifting through these
accounts in order to 'make sense of science'. Lambert and Rose also demonstrate that
in so doing public groups effectively renegotiate the boundary between science and
the public as they come to take responsibility for aspects of knowledge previously
taken for granted as the domain of science or medicine.
In Chapter Four of this collection, Frances Price offers a second medically related
case-study. Her chapter is especially concerned with imaging technology within
reproductive medicine and with the ways in which the enhanced 'visibility' of
embryos and fetuses comes to be framed within antenatal and infertility clinics. The
production and communication of these new sophisticated images can be portrayed
as straightforwardly beneficial to patients - who can now 'see' into their own womb.
However, as the chapter discusses in some depth, the production of such images for
viewing by, and discussion with, patients also represents a shaping of knowledge and
of the communication of knowledge which can raise difficult questions of authority,
expertise, and control.
 14 ALAN IRWIN AND BRIAN WYNNE

Chapters Five and Six are both concerned with ignorance - but show 'ignorance'
to be actively rather than passively constructed. As Michael discusses, the conven-
tional approach defines ignorance as an empty space, as a knowledge vacuum. How-
ever, Michael notes to the contrary that specific varieties of ignorance were demon-
strated in his interviews with lay people using expressions of ignorance to structure
their relationship to science. The author explores the discourses of ignorance that
people mobilise when commenting on science. Drawing upon three areas of field-
work, Michael notes that these discourses can take several identifiable forms - includ-
ing ignorance as a deliberate choice - and that these will represent a reflection of
the power relation between people and science. Michael's analysis suggests the
importance of social identity as the fundamental basis of public responses to 'science'
(which is itself being projected according to the processes of social identity mainten-
ance of scientific and technical institutions).
Chapter Six offers a study of the reception of technical expertise within the cul-
turally coherent community of the Isle of Man. In representing this on the basis of
ethnographic investigation, McKechnie provides an account of the same fundamental
processes described by Michael but in a very different social and cultural setting.
Whereas the lay-publics investigated by Michael were relatively amorphous, not
united by any collective identity, McKechnie studied the reconfiguration of external
scientific expertise according to the relatively well-structured Manx cultural identity.
The chapter argues, like that of Wynne earlier, that the processes of interaction with
science were inextricably interwoven with wider concerns to defend this cultural
identity against 'outsiders' who were seen to be using science as a political weapon.
Once more, we enter the territory of 'reconstructing science' - with informal cultural
frameworks acting as a medium of conditional and qualified assessment. Other basic
processes involved at this level include; evaluation according to cultural and social
criteria; social positioning and bounding according to prevailing or desired social
relationships; distancing, reformulation, and adoption of information in more local
idioms and languages. Although from a 'science-centred' perspective, science may
appear to have been ignored, rejected or distorted, this chapter yet again reveals
the more complex, sophisticated, and less-negative nature of public appreciations of
science.
In Chapter Seven, we move to the construction of one form of scientific dissemi-
nation - the preparation of a permanent gallery on food within the Science Museum.
The emphasis here is on the framing of science and on the processes of selection
and audience-establishment involved. Through an ethnographic investigation (a
methodology which is common to most of the chapters in this book), MacDonald
records the social processes involved in the contextualisation of science and the
manner in which the competing objectives of the exhibition are reconciled. Thus,
MacDonald analyses the gallery's particular construction of contentious issues such
 Introduction 15

as food safety and the manner in which the 'official' nature of the museum serves
to inhibit controversy and dispute between experts. Overall, MacDonald argues
powerfully that science communication involves considerably more than simply
'transporting information' from one medium to another - instead, it involves a defi-
nition and selection of just which 'facts' are to be presented to the public, of how
'problems' are identified and a negotiation over what kind of entity 'science' should
appear to be.
Chapters Eight and Nine of this collection move discussion on to the changing
context of science-public relations. We look at two major discussions here: the
growth in importance of social action and organisation outside of conventional insti-
tutions, and the transformation of scientific cultures themselves towards more com-
mercial forms.
First of all, Yearley addresses the important relationship between science and
environmental organisations. Yearley suggests that the study of knowledge and beliefs
about the environment offers a pressing example of the handling of science in the
public realm. The author notes the ambivalent relationship between science in this
context and practical policy-making and also the difficulties faced by green groups
in making sense of science. From an analysis of the practical experiences of environ-
mental organisations, it would appear that there is no straightforward way of har-
nessing scientific expertise to environmental interests. Equally, a growing awareness
of the problems encountered by science in this area is leading to increasing challenge
against science as a 'speaker of truth against power'. Such an awareness would have
major consequences for the perceived importance of the public understanding of
science.
Chapter Nine follows this general analysis of the changing relationship between
public groups and science with a study of the changing nature of science itself. Roth-
man, Glasner, and Adams explore the differing models of 'science' held by those
working within scientific institutions - including scientists, R and D managers,
research council officials and others dealing in strategic science. They argue that
there is no clear consensus amongst the practitioners of science concerning how
'science' or 'scientific knowledge' should be defined in any context. The authors
thus suggest the diverse character of science as it is encountered by various publics.
Science is currently undergoing a process of institutional change. For all these
reasons, the conception of what is involved in the public understanding of science
will of necessity become more heterogeneous and pluralistic.
In the Conclusion to this collection, we try not to summarise the various key
points made by contributors but instead to address certain underlying and highly
consequential issues - including the wider relevance of these largely qualitative and
case-study oriented accounts. Is it possible to reach satisfactory conclusions for the
'public understanding of science' from a series of such specific contexts? This will
 l 6 ALAN IRWIN AND BRIAN WYNNE

also involve a methodologically oriented discussion of the relationship between such

qualitative-interpretive research and the large-scale surveys which have investigated
public understanding and attitudes towards science from a rather different
perspective.
We will also attempt to locate the content of this book within the changing struc-
ture of contemporary society and, especially, debates over the nature of modernity
and the cultural dimensions of political change. Finally, and very importantly, we
will consider the practical implications of this line of analysis. What does our account
tell us about the possibilities for enhancing future social relationships between citi-
zens and science? These implications will relate both to public groups themselves
and to the contemporary institutional structure of science. We aspire here to address-
ing the problems of legitimation which underlie the rhetorical expression of the
'public understanding of science' problem.
As we hope to demonstrate in the following chapters, the 'public understanding
of science' represents an issue which is both practically pressing and intellectually
challenging. We do not claim to have a tidy synthesis which can easily replace current
'science-centred' accounts and assumptions. Instead, our argument is that both prac-
tical policy-making and academic analysis needs to embrace the uncertainty, com-
plexity and heterogeneity of current science-public interactions. As we will suggest,
it is only on that basis that real social and scientific progress can be made.
Finally in this Introduction, we need to address questions of the audience for
Misunderstanding science} If the arguments of this book are indeed as significant as
we, the editors, consider them to be, then our readership needs also to be broad -
both in terms of national and international coverage, and in terms of the backgrounds
of individual readers. Whilst the specific studies presented in this book largely relate
to the British context, we quite clearly see them as having a wider relevance. This
point will be dealt with especially in the Conclusions where we tackle directly matters
of the iocaF and the 'cosmopolitan'. Meanwhile, each of the chapters attempts to
draw broad implications from each of the particular areas of investigation in a manner
which explicitly connects individual contexts to wider social themes, issues, and
concerns. Thus, we can hypothesise that, whilst in other national settings the local
contexts may indeed change, the same underlying questions will occur. Of course,
this book is just a starting-point to that vital process of international inquiry.
As for the readers themselves, we hope that this book will fit within social science-
based discussions around the sociology of modernity and of scientific knowledge and
interdisciplinary treatments of science and technology studies. However, we intend
also that this book will be accessible to that larger audience of scientists and technol-
ogists (whether working in a research capacity or within what we can loosely term
'scientific institutions') and of public groups who are in different ways grappling
with the issues of 'misunderstanding science?'.
 Introduction 17

We recognise that the language of this book will at times appear a little difficult
and 'technical' - it is important that social scientists should be able to use specialised
concepts and the language of theory (although, as editors, we have done our best to
keep this to a minimum). It is our contention that the issues discussed here demand
a high order of analysis - if that analysis occasionally necessitates the use of difficult
concepts then that is reasonable. At no point, however, should that conceptual com-
plexity interfere with the central aim of this book; to explore, analyse, and (as a
consequence) reinterpret the problematic relationship between the sciences and their
publics in modern society.

NOTES

1. South wood, R., quoted in Food Safety Advisory Centre leaflet, The Facts about BSE. The
Food Safety Advisory Centre is sponsored by Asda, Gateway, Morrisons, Safeway,
Sainsburys, and Tesco.
2. Quoted in The Guardian 13 July 1990.
3. See, for example: Beck, U., Risk Society; towards a new modernity (London, Newbury Park,
New Delhi: Sage, 1992); Giddens, A., Modernity and Self-Identity; self and society in the late
modern age (Cambridge: Polity Press, 1991).
4. Berg, M., The Machinery Question and the Making of Political Economy 1815-1848
(Cambridge University Press, 1980).
5. See, Werskey, G., The Visible College - a collective biography of British scientists and socialists
of the 1930s (London: Free Association Books, 1988).
6. Haldane, J. B. S. Science and Everyday Life (Harmondsworth: Pelican Books, 1939) p. 7.
7. Members of the Association of Scientific Workers, Science and the Nation (Harmondsworth:
Penguin, 1947) p. 246.
8. Royal Society, The Public Understanding of Science (London: Royal Society, 1985) p. 9.
9. UK Government, Realising Our Potential; a strategy for science, engineering and technology
Cm 2250. (London: HMSO, 1993).
10. Ibid.
11. Nehru quoted in Perutz, M., Is Science Necessary? Essays on science and scientists (Oxford and
New York: Oxford University Press, 1991) p. vii.
12. Wynne, B., 'Public understanding of science research; new horizons or hall of mirrors?',
Public Understanding of Science 1, 1 (1992) p. 38.
13. See, for example: Latour, B., Science in Action (Milton Keynes: Open University Press,
1987); Mulkay, M., Sociology of Science; a sociological pilgrimage (Milton Keynes: Open
University Press, 1991); Woolgar, S., Science: the very idea (London: Tavistock, 1988).
14. Williams, R., Resources of Hope. Edited by R. Gable. (London and New York: Verso, 1989)
p. 11.
 i Misunderstood misunderstandings: social
identities and public uptake of science
BRIAN WYNNE

This chapter takes as its focus one very specific example of public interaction with sci-
ence - the case of the hill sheep-farmers of the Lake District of northern England. They
experienced radioactive fall-out from the 1986 Chernobyl accident which contaminated
their sheep flocks and upland pastures. In an area dominated by a traditional and
demanding hill-farming economy, they were restricted from selling their sheep freely
(almost 100 farms are still under restriction). They also received intensive expert advice
about the environmental hazards from the radiocaesium deposits, and the relationship
of these to other such deposits from the nearby Windscale-Sellafield nuclear facilities
and 1950s weapons testing fall-out. Fieldwork comprising mainly in-depth interviews
with affected farmers and others provided data for analysis of the factors influencing
the reception of scientific expertise by this sub-population.
In analysing the farmers' understanding of the science, it was immediately apparent
that it would have been meaningless and utterly misleading to treat their response to its
cognitive content - for example, the claim that radiocaesium from Chernobyl was
clearly distinguishable from Sellafield emissions of the same radio-isotopes - as if separ-
ate from its social and institutional form. Examining how the scientific institutions
framed the issue and the knowledge they articulated as science, identified certain com-
mitments which were institutionalised and taken for granted, thus not deliberately
introduced. They constituted the very culture of science as institutionalised and prac-
tised as public knowledge. These assumptions shaped the scientific knowledge, they
were not extra to it; and they were built in as social prescriptions in the way the science
was institutionalised and deployed. These were elements of cultural prescription
posing, albeit innocently, as objective knowledge. They included the assumptions:
• that the natural (and achievable) purpose of knowledge was control and
prediction;
• that standardisation of environmental measurements and concepts over given
areas and social units was natural even though it imposed standardisation on
the social units too;
 20 BRIAN WYNNE

• that uncertainties in scientific knowledge could be contained within the private

discourse of the scientists and would be misunderstood if disclosed in public;
• that local lay knowledge was effectively worthless; and
• that scientific methods of research could fully simulate realistic-farming con-
ditions as practised, transmitted, and valued in hill-farming culture.

These assumptions were embedded in scientific interventions and approaches.

They were by no means neutral in relation not only to local culture, but to locally
validated knowledges. With such expert interventions, people experienced their
identities to be threatened. This was not remotely characterisable as a cognitive
challenge, which is how conventional approaches would treat it (Royal Society 1985;
Durant et al. 1989).
One central issue within this chapter will be that of trust. Certainly, it is now
accepted that trust and credibility are major contextual factors influencing the uptake
and understanding of scientific messages, and the public perception of risks (Wynne
1980, 1992; Slovic 1992). In particular, we need to consider the trust which public
groups are prepared to grant to various institutions and actors - Chapter Two, for
example, discusses this with particular reference to the relationship between the local
chemical industry and residents over hazard issues.
In this chapter, these cultural questions of trust and credibility will be examined -
not as intrinsic or inevitable characteristics of knowledge or institutions - but as
embedded within changing social relationships. Thus, though they pervade all pro-
cesses of 'understanding', trust and credibility are contingent variables which depend
upon evolving relationships and identities. As such, lay judgements of trust are not
set in concrete or even necessarily apply in all circumstances. Rather, they are con-
ditional, and open to continual renegotiation. Indeed, as the following case-study
suggests, even in the supposedly traditionalist culture of hill farming these judge-
ments may be subject to ambivalence and contradiction - reflecting the diverse social
networks and multi-faceted identities inhabited by this one social group. In recognis-
ing the cultural role of trust relationships therefore, we should avoid the reification
of trust, and retain its problematic conceptual character.
Throughout this case-study, we will consider the interplay between social and
cultural identities (especially those of the sheep-farmers) as they see themselves
threatened by the form of scientific interventions. All too often, such confrontations
are portrayed as a clash between open-minded modernity and closed-minded tra-
dition. By contrast, in what follows, we will witness not only the grounded and
reflexive cognitive content of lay knowledges, but also the culturally-loaded structures
of scientific knowledge as deployed in public domains (Michael 1992; Wynne 1993).
It is not, therefore, that scientific knowledge merely omits social dimensions that
ordinary people incorporate in their evaluations and assessments. It is that scientific
 Misunderstood misunderstandings 21

knowledge tacitly imports and imposes particular and problematic versions of social
relationships and identities. This seems a major factor in the sometimes negative
public response to technical pronouncements, especially ones which, in their lack of
institutional self-awareness or reflexivity, impose these social prescriptions without
negotiation. This will be a recurrent theme in the kinds of social circumstance ana-
lysed in this book.
Thus, three key points of wider significance are apparent:
• the fundamental interaction between scientific expertise and lay-publics is cul-
tural^ in that scientific knowledge embodies social and cultural prescriptions
in its very structure;
• the problems of public uptake of science therefore lie in the institutional forms
of science and of its incorporation into policy and administration;
• iocaP case studies of this sort should be seen as an expression of deeper
problems of modernity as embodied in dominant institutional cultures. They
are not just a defence of 'traditional communities' against an anonymous mod-
ernising 'centre', but a more fundamental challenge to the very idea of a uni-
versalising 'centre' in the first place.

Sheep farmers, scientists, and radiation hazards: the background

The hill sheep-farmers near the Sellafield (formerly Windscale) nuclear fuels repro-
cessing complex in the Lake District of Cumbria, northern England, have more than
a personal health interest in radiation risk information. Their economic viability
depends totally upon rearing a large crop of lambs each spring, and selling them in
the late summer and autumn, before they run out of their meagre valley grazing due
to the temporary overpopulation of lambs. The UK lamb industry exports heavily to
continental Europe. Any public perception of radioactive blight on its product would
destroy the industry, especially the hill sheep-farming sector which is a key early
part of the breeding cycle, but which is economically more fragile and offers the
farmer few or no alternatives compared to lowland sheep-farming.
The upland hill-farming region in the Lake District is one of the few locations
of relative solidarity and distinctive traditional cultural identity left in industrial
Britain. Although (as shown later) this should not be overstated, these communities
share an unusually demanding livelihood as a way of life; they occupy a distinct and
sought-after geographical location, and have common historical traditions, linguistic
dialects and recreational pursuits. They also share particular 'external' socio-
economic threats such as subordination to tourism, landlords, and authorities who
appear to be more and more concerned with meeting environmental and urban rec-
reational demands on the country than with sheep-farming. All of this was an import-
ant context of the post-Chernobyl crisis.
 22 BRIAN WYNNE

In May 1986, following the Chernobyl accident, upland areas of Britain suffered
heavy but highly variable deposits of radioactive caesium isotopes, which were rained
out by localised thunderstorms. The effects of this radioactive fall-out were immedi-
ately dismissed by scientists and political leaders as negligible, but after six weeks,
on 20th June 1986, a ban was suddenly placed on the movement and slaughter of
sheep from some of these areas, including Cumbria.
Although this shock was mitigated somewhat by the confident scientific reassur-
ances that the elevated levels of caesium in sheep, and hence the ban, would only
last about three weeks, at the end of this period the restrictions were instead imposed
indefinitely. The confident dismissal of any effects only two months earlier had
changed to the possibility of wholesale slaughter and complete ruin of hill sheep-
farms at the hands of a faraway stricken nuclear plant. At the time over four thousand
British farms were restricted. The initially wide restricted area in Cumbria (which
included about 500 farms) was whittled down within three months to a central cres-
cent covering 150 farms (see Figure 1.1). These farms remained restricted, contrary
to all the scientific assertions of the time. A later review indicated that they could
remain so for years, overturning completely the scientific basis upon which the pre-
vious policy commitments were made (Howard and Beresford, 1989).
Very close to this recalcitrant central 'crescent' of longer-term radioactive contami-
nation, almost suggesting itself as its focal point, is the Sellafield-Windscale nuclear
complex. The stories of Sellafield-Windscale and Chernobyl are intertwined in ways
which I now unravel.
Sellafield-Windscale is a huge complex of fuel storage ponds, chemical repro-
cessing plants, nuclear reactors, defunct military piles, plutonium processing and
storage facilities, and waste processing and storage silos. It has developed from its
original role in the early 1950s of producing purely weapons-grade plutonium into a
combined military and commercial reprocessing facility which stores and reprocesses
thousands of tonnes of UK and foreign spent fuel. It is by far the biggest employer
in the area, with a regular workforce of some five thousand swollen until recently
by a construction workforce of nearly the same size. It dominates the whole area
not only economically, but also socially and culturally.
Sellafield has been the centre of successive controversies, accidents, and events
relating to its environmental discharges and workforce radiation doses, with increas-
ingly powerful criticisms not only of allegedly inadequate management and regu-
lation, but also of poor scientific understanding of its environmental effects, and of
the economic irrationality of the recycling option in nuclear fuel cycle policy. In the
early 1980s the plant was alleged to be the cause of excess childhood leukaemia
clusters; these excesses were confirmed in 1984 by an official inquiry chaired by Sir
Douglas Black, which nevertheless expressed agnosticism as to the cause (Macgill
1987; McSorley 1990). This controversy continues, with every scientific report
 Misunderstood misunderstandings 23

••••••••

1.1 Map showing the restricted areas of Cumbria, from June 1986 (the original area), and from
September 1986 (the present one). (Source: Drawn from UK Ministry of Agriculture,
Fisheries and Food (MAFF))

exhaustively covered in the local and national media (Gardner et al. 1990). The plant
operators were later shown to have misled the Black inquiry, inadvertently or not,
over earlier levels of environmental discharge of radioactivity. In 1984 the operators
were accused by the environmental group Greenpeace of contaminating local beaches
above legal discharge levels, and were subsequently prosecuted; and in 1986 they
were threatened with closure after another incident and an ensuing formal safety
audit by the Health and Safety Executive. Despite huge investments in public
relations, they have suffered a generally poor public image for openness and honesty
over the years.
 24 BRIAN WYNNE

Before most of these controversies developed, in 1957 the Sellafield-Windscale

site suffered the world's worst nuclear reactor accident before Chernobyl, when a
nuclear pile caught fire and burned for some days before being quenched (Arnold
1992). It emitted a plume of radioactive isotopes, mainly iodine and caesium, over
much the same area of the Lake District of Western Cumbria as that affected by
the Chernobyl fallout. This fire and its environmental effects were surrounded by
a great deal of secrecy. Although farmers in the vicinity were forced to pour away
contaminated milk for several weeks afterwards, at the time they reacted without
any overt hostility or criticism of the industry. Even in 1977 when they had the
opportunity during a public inquiry to join with an emergent coalition of environ-
mental groups against a major expansion at Sellafield, the local farming population
largely kept out of the argument (Wynne 1982). Significantly, however, it was only
after 1987 that the fuller extent of the Windscale fire cover-up emerged into the
public domain. In 1990 it was revealed in a television programme that the ill-fated
pile had in fact been allowed to operate with faults, which meant that highly
irradiated spent fuel had been lying in the air streams emitted up the stack. Thus
it was exposed that the fire had been a blessing in disguise for the authorities, since
any discoveries of local environmental contamination could be attributed to the one-
off fire itself rather than to longer-standing management practices which had allowed
routine uncontrolled radioactive emissions to occur for some time before. The paral-
lels with the Chernobyl issue nearly thirty years later are remarkable, as explained
below.
The farming population in the Cumbrian hills is relatively stable, most farmers
having lived through these controversies and events as near neighbours. Indeed many
of them have relations, neighbours, and casual employees who also work at the Sella-
field-Windscale site. Not only is it close physically, it is also never far away from
contemplation. Far from giving Sellafield-Windscale some welcome relief, the Cher-
nobyl emergency ironically brought it even more to critical public attention.

Scientific knowledge and social identities

At first, scientific advice was that there would be no effects at all from the Chernobyl
radiocaesium fall-out. After six weeks these confident public reassurances were dra-
matically overturned when on 20 June 1986 the Minister for Agriculture announced
the complete ban on sheep sales and movements in several affected areas, including
Cumbria (see Figure 1.1). However, the shock waves from this reversal were con-
tained by the strong reassurances accompanying the ban that it would be for three
weeks only, by which time radioactivity levels in lamb would, it was confidently
expected, have reduced beneath the level at which intervention was required. This
 Misunderstood misunderstandings 25

short ban could be accommodated because very few if any hill lambs would be ready
to sell before late August anyway.
Yet after the three-week period, instead of lifting the ban the government
announced an indefinite extension, albeit for a smaller area. This represented an
altogether more serious situation in which the hill farmers faced ruin, because not
only lamb crops, but also breeding flocks faced starvation and wholesale slaughter
due to inadequate grazing. The government introduced a scheme to remove this
threat: it allowed farmers to sell lambs contaminated above the limit if they were
marked, in which case the lambs could be moved to other areas but not slaughtered
until their contamination had reduced. This blight factor collapsed the market price
for marked sheep, and many lowland farmers bought them and then made handsome
profits when they sold them after the sheep had decontaminated on their farms.
The hill farmers were left in a quandary. If they sold, they had to run the gauntlet
of the threatening bureaucratic system which had been established to manage the
restrictions, which consisted of prior notification, tests and controls, and paperwork,
and offered only a possible and partial future compensation for catastrophically low
prices. If they held on to their sheep they risked ruin from starvation, disease, and
knock-on effects, or from the costs for buying in extra feed. Yet, even after the
initial contradiction of their scientific beliefs, the scientists advised farmers to hang
on because, as they persisted in believing, the contamination would fall soon - it
was just taking a bit longer than expected. When farmers did follow expert advice
and waited, they found the restrictions continuing; once again the advice was badly
over-optimistic, and had led them into a blind alley in which many costly compli-
cations to farm-management cycles had been introduced, and compensation was cut
off because they had not sold within the prescribed period. In the circumstances it
was not surprising that our interviews (see later) found many farmers bitterly
accusing the scientists of being involved in a conspiracy with a government which
they saw as bent on undermining hill farming anyway.
Through the troubled and confused summer of 1986, in spite of mounting evi-
dence and their own public embarrassment, the scientists persisted in their belief
that the initially high caesium levels would fall soon. Only later did it emerge that
these predictions were based upon a false scientific model of the behaviour of caesium
in the upland environment. The prevailing scientific model was drawn from empirical
observation of alkaline clay soils, in which caesium is chemically adsorbed and
immobilised and so is unable to pass into vegetation. But alkaline clay soils are not
found in upland areas, which have acid peaty soil. This type of soil had been exam-
ined, but only for physical parameters such as depth-leaching and erosion, and not
for chemical mobility (Wynne 1992).
Thus the scientists unwittingly transferred knowledge of the clay soils to acid
peaty soil, in which caesium remains chemically mobile and available to be taken up
 26 BRIAN WYNNE

by plant roots. Whereas their model had caesium being deposited, washed into the
soil and then locked up by chemical adsorption, thus only contaminating the lambs
on a one-pass basis, in fact the caesium was recycling back from the soil into veg-
etation, and thence back into the lambs. This mistake only became apparent over
the next two years, as contamination levels remained stubbornly high and the reasons
were urgently sought. What was not lost on the farmers, however, was that the
scientists had made unqualified reassuring assertions then been proven mistaken, and
had not even admitted making a serious mistake. Their exaggerated sense of certainty
and arrogance was a major factor in undermining the scientists' credibility with the
farmers on other issues such as the source of the contamination. In any case the
typical scientific idiom of certainty and control was culturally discordant with the
farmers, whose whole cultural ethos routinely accepted uncertainty and the need for
flexible adaptation rather than prediction and control.
The structure of the scientific knowledge in play also embodied and, in effect,
prescribed a particular social construct of the farmers (Wynne 1992). To summarise
this analysis, the degree of certainty expressed in scientific statements denied the
ability of the farmers to cope with ignorance and lack of control: and the degree of
standardisation and aggregation of the scientific knowledge, for example the spatial
units of variation of variables such as caesium contamination, denied the differences
between farms, even in a single valley (and even within the same farm). At the
same time the scientists ignored farmers' own knowledge of their local environments,
hill-sheep characteristics, and hill-farming management realities such as the impossi-
bility of grazing flocks all on cleaner valley grass, and the difficulties of gathering
sheep from open fells for tests.
As a result the farmers felt their social identity as specialists within their own
sphere, with its adaptive, informal cultural idiom, to be denigrated and threatened
by this treatment. This was a reflection of the culture and institutional form of
science, not only of what specifically it claimed to know.
A graphic example of the scientists' denial of the specialist knowledge of the
farmers was the scientists' decision to perform experiments on the value of the min-
eral bentonite to chemically adsorb caesium in the soil and vegetation, thus helping
reduce recontamination of grazing sheep (Beresford et al., 1989). The bentonite was
spread at different concentrations on the ground in different plots; the sheep from
each plot were then tested at intervals, and compared with controls on zero-bentonite
land. However, in order to do this the sheep were fenced in on contained fell-side
plots. The farmers pointed out that the sheep were used to roaming over open tracts
of fell land, without even fences between farms, and that if they were fenced in they
would waste (lose condition), thus ruining the experiment. Their criticisms were
ignored, but were vindicated later when the experiments were quietly abandoned for
the reasons that the farmers had identified. The farmers had expressed valued and
 Misunderstood misunderstandings 27

useful specialist knowledge for the conduct and development of science, but this was
ignored. Similar experiences occurred over other aspects of hill farming and the
scientific knowledge relating to the management of the crisis.
In respect of both the 'conspiracy theory' and the 'arrogance theory' of science,
the Cumbrian sheep-farmers felt that their social identity as a specialist community
with distinct traditions, skills, and social relations was under fundamental threat.
These two models of science, which reinforced each other in the experienced threat
to social identity, are mutually contradictory if taken literally. The former implies
omniscience ('they knew all along that the high levels would last much longer than
they admitted'); the latter implies unadmitted ignorance in science. This apparent
anomaly exposes the futility of expecting consistent formal 'beliefs' about science in
research on public understanding; coherence lies at a deeper level, of the defence
and negotiation of social identities. We examine this dimension next.

Public belief and private dissent

Before the Chernobyl plume deposited its radioactive burden on the fells of Cumbria,
there had been little or no controversy about radioactive caesium and related contami-
nation of sheep on the high fells. Amongst several other issues concerning Sellafield's
environmental discharges, contamination of pastures and grazing animals along the
lowland coastal plain near the plant had been found and debated, for example in
monitoring by Friends of the Earth, the Sellafield operators British Nuclear Fuels,
and the Ministry of Agriculture, Fisheries and Food (Friends of the Earth 1987;
BNFL 1987; MAFF, 1987; HC Agriculture Select Committee 1988). But little or
no scientific monitoring or public attention had been paid to the high fells and their
sheep; and no allegations of contamination of the fells and their sheep had been
made. When the Chernobyl restrictions were announced however, and then almost
immediately extended indefinitely, questions were very soon circulating locally about
the real source of the contamination. The fact that a crescent of high contamination
almost centring on Sellafield persisted (Figure 1.1) against scientific reassurances
that levels would decrease within a few weeks, was prima-facie evidence of a hitherto
hidden Sellafield dimension. The first national maps of caesium contamination meas-
ured after Chernobyl (in June and July 1986) had already shown remarkably high
levels in West Cumbria, near Sellafield (Institute for Terrestrial Ecology 1986). The
fact that these measurements, which were taken from vegetation samples (Figure
1.2), did not altogether tally with the distribution as estimated from a combination
of rainfall data during the crucial period while the radioactive cloud was over Britain,
and models of rain-out of caesium from the atmosphere (Figure 1.3) also invited the
question of whether a hidden factor, such as unacknowledged long-term Sellafield
discharges, had created the differences (Smith and Clark 1986). This factor would
 28 BRIAN WYNNE

Carlisle

Alston

,10km,

Bq m"2
0 - 500 Q
500 -1000 [ J
1000-2000 Q ]
2000 - 4000 |
over 4000 t c

1.2 Contours of UK radioactive caesium contamination measured from vegetation, June-July

1986. The data are in units of Bq m~2. (Source: Institute for Terrestrial Ecology (ITE))

be picked up by the vegetation-samples method, but not by the rainfall-data method.

In the manifest scientific confusion and inconsistency, it was as if the farmers had
suddenly found an outlet for fears and suspicions that they had previously enter-
tained, but felt unable to voice. Ironically it was radioactive contamination which
 Misunderstood misunderstandings 29

1000Bqm-2

1.0-4.9
5.0-9.9
10.0-14.9
15.0-19.9
^20.0

1.3 U K radioactive caesium levels estimated from rainfall data, Chernobyl cloud movement data,
and models of caesium rain-out from the atmosphere

scientists confidently proclaimed was nothing to do with Sellafield-Windscale which

gave the hill farmers their first embryonic voice about that local trouble-spot.
In our interviews, typical scepticism about the scientists' assertions of Sellafield's
innocence was expressed as follows:
 30 BRIAN WYNNE

There's another thing about this as well. We don't live far enough away from
Sellafield. If there's anything about we are much more likely to get it from there! Most
people think that around here. It all comes out in years to come; it never comes out at
the time. Just look at these clusters of leukaemia all around these places. It's no
coincidence. They talk about these things coming from Russia, but it's surely no
coincidence that it's gathered around Sellafield. They must think everyone is
completely stupid. 1

These immediate local suspicions were only strengthened by the Ministry of Agricul-
ture maps showing the restricted areas (Figure I.I). Other farmers reinforced this
logic, as did experience of the continuing secrecy surrounding the 1957 fire.
It still doesn't give anyone any confidence, the fact that they haven't released all the
documents from Sellafield in 1957. I talk to people every week — they say this hasn't
come from Russia! People say to me every week, 'Still restricted eh — that didn't come
from Russia lad! Not with that lot on your doorstep.'

The scientific view was that the Chernobyl caesium depositions could be dis-
tinguished from the caesium in routine Sellafield emissions, 1957 fire emissions, or
1950s weapons testing fall-out, by the typical 'signature', in gamma-radiation energy
spectra, of the ratio of intensities of the isotopes caesium 137 and caesium 134 (each
isotope has a characteristic gamma-ray frequency or energy). The half-life of the
caesium 137 isotope is about thirty years, while that of the caesium 134 isotope is
less than one year, so the ratio of intensities of caesium 137 to caesium 134 increases
with time. A typical Sellafield sample (from fully burnt-up fuel, usually stored for
several years before reprocessing; or if from the 1957 fire, aged in the environment)
would therefore show a greater ratio (about ten to one) than a Chernobyl sample
consisting of fresh fuel and fission products (about two to one). Thus the deposits
were said scientifically to show the so-called Chernobyl fingerprint, making an anal-
ogy with a form of evidence which is never questioned in law.
This scientific distinction, which exonerated Sellafield, was unequivocally asserted
at public meetings and lectures with virtually complete consensus from scientists
from the Ministry of Agriculture, Fisheries and Food (MAFF) and the other scien-
tific organisations involved in the issue, at least for the first year or more of the
crisis. However, it too turned out to be less clear-cut than first claimed: it was later
admitted that only about 50% of the observed radioactive caesium was from Cherno-
byl, the rest being from 'other sources', including weapons testing fall-out and the
1957 Windscale fire (House of Commons Agriculture Select Committee, 1988; Far-
mers Weekly 1988). Nevertheless, at the time the difference in the fingerprints was
represented as a very clear-cut scientific distinction, with Sellafield for once in the
clear, and Chernobyl definitely to blame. Yet, although it was against their economic
interests to entertain thoughts of a longer-standing but neglected (or covered-up)
blight from Sellafield, and in the face of this solid scientific consensus, many hill
 Misunderstood misunderstandings 31

farmers were ready, at least in private, to implicate Sellafield. Their reasoning tells
us a lot about the deeper cultural and social structures of expert credibility.
It was striking that when we asked farmers sceptical about the scientists' exoner-
ation of Sellafield to explain their reasoning, many of them talked about the 1957
fire and the secrecy surrounding it. At first we did not see this as an answer to the
question, but then we realised that it was - they were explaining the lack of credibility
of the present scientific claim about the Sellafield-Chernobyl distinction as due to
the untrustworthy way in which the experts and authorities had treated them over the
1957 fire, and the longer history of perceived misinformation surrounding Sellafield:
Quite a lot of farmers around believe it's from Sellafield and not from Chernobyl at all.
In 1957 it was a Ministry of Defence establishment - they kept things under wraps -
and it was maybe much more serious than they gave out. Locals were drinking milk,
which should probably never have been allowed - and memory lingers on.

The farmers thus embedded their reading of the present scientific claim about the
isotope ratio distinction firmly within the context of the unpersuasive and untrust-
worthy nuclear institutional body language which had denigrated them for thirty
years or more. Their definition of risk was in terms of the social relationships they
experienced, as a historical process.
They had a range of further reasons supporting this dissident logic. The empirical
evidence of the maps (Figure 1.1, and contrasts between Figures 1.2 and 1.3) was
powerful as far as they were concerned; and official disclaimers were ridiculed with
a heavy irony only evident in a personal interview, such as (referring to a MAFF
scientist) 'she said she couldn't understand why the heaviest fallout from Chernobyl
happened to fall around Sellafield'.
Thus the farmers gathered - and used - evidence which was drawn from science,
including scientific inconsistencies on which the scientists themselves did not focus.
They entered the scientific arena in this sense, redrew its boundaries, and, operating
with different presuppositions and inference rules, also redrew its logical structures.
Other direct empirical connections were drawn which may not have made scien-
tific sense, but which served to make a consistent explanatory picture to people who
saw the science to be either politically manipulated or naively overconfident in its
own certitude.
Most farmers believe it's really from BNFL [Sellafield]. You'd have great difficulty
convincing them otherwise. This area is a kind of crescent shape. If you're up on the
tops [of the fells] on a winter's day you see the tops of the cooling towers, the steam
rises up and hits the fells just below the tops. It might be sheer coincidence, but where
the [radiation] hot spots are is just where that cloud of steam hits - anyone can see it
if they look. You don't need to be a scientist or be very articulate but they've figured it
out all right. I think there's been low-level fall-out ever since that place opened, and
Chernobyl has gone on top of it.
 32 BRIAN WYNNE

Interestingly, the apparently unfounded notion that high deposits occur where 'the
clouds' hit the fell sides is not unreasonable, because scientists themselves recognised
the importance of intense 'occult deposits' of radio-isotopes direct from low-lying
clouds and mists which are typical of the Lake District climate.
Other farmers seemed to be exercising a strong penchant for irony when they put
into sceptical perspective the experts' claims about the 'coincidence' of Chernobyl
deposition next to the local controversial nuclear site:
When you look at the stations around here, I said it was like a magnet, it just drew it
in! [Then, relaxing the irony] I still think it was here before. They [the experts] won't
have it . . . We can't argue with them, but you can think your own ideas.

Often the justification for disbelieving the scientists on the Sellafield connection was
simply that the same experts had very recently asserted, with similar confidence,
first that there would be no effects of the Chernobyl cloud, and then that the restric-
tions which were imposed after all would be very short-lived. Since their self-
confidence had been shown to be misplaced on those counts, why should they expect
to be believed this time, especially when no admission of the earlier mistakes was
forthcoming? The farmers scorned what they saw as the scientists' addiction to over-
confidence and false certainty:
My theory, which is probably as good as anyone else's is this: we don't know . . . They
keep rushing to conclusions before the conclusion has been reached - you understand
what I'm saying? They'd have been far better to keep their traps shut and wait.

And a National Farmers' Union local representative put it: 'We may be on the eve
of a new age of enlightenment. - When a scientist says he doesn't know, perhaps
there's hope for the future!'
It is important to note that scientific credibility was influenced not only by the
evidence which alternative logical presuppositions could select and render coherent,
and not only by the prior intellectual mistakes, but by the way they were handled
socially. This gave impetus to the alternative constructs.
The farmers also came into direct contact with the conduct of science on their
farms, as hosts to a proliferation of monitoring, sampling, field analysis, and various
other scientific activities. Again, they soon noted the inconsistency between the cer-
tainty pervading public scientific statements, and the uncertainties involved in actu-
ally attempting to create definitive scientific knowledge in such novel and open-ended
circumstances. The experience of watching scientists decide where and how to take
samples, of seeing the variability in readings over small distances, noticing the diffi-
culty of obtaining a consistent standard for background levels, and of gradually
becoming aware of the sheer number and variety of less controlled assumptions,
judgements and negotiations that underpin scientific facts, corroded the wider credi-
bility of official statements couched in a typical language of certainty and standardis-
 Misunderstood misunderstandings 33

ation. By accident, as it were, the farmers entered the 'black-boxes' of constructed,

'naturally determined' science, and saw its indeterminacies for themselves (Latour
1987). Referring to the live monitoring of sheep by a government official which was
obligatory, one farmer indicated how doubts set in:
Last year we did 500 [sheep] in one day. We started at 10.30 and finished at about six.
Another day we monitored quite a lot and about 13 or 14 of them failed. And he [the
monitor] said, 'now we'll do them again' - and we got them down to three! It makes
you wonder a bit . . . it made a difference . . . when you do a job like that you've got
to hold it [the counter] on its backside, and sheep do jump about a bit.

These forms of reasoning were buttressed by further social evidence and judge-
ment. There existed amongst the farmers a widespread model of the capture of
science by institutions with their own manipulative political agendas. Such judge-
ments were supported by empirical observations, such as the refusal of MAFF
officials to allow an American television team to film the lively debate with affected
farmers at a public meeting in February 1987. The TV team was preparing a five-
country documentary on the international response to Chernobyl. The producer's
acid comment as he departed that his team had received more open treatment in
(pre-glasnost) Poland than in Britain - was widely quoted afterwards among the far-
mers (Williams and Wynne 1988).
The farmers drew similar conclusions from MAFF's response to their requests
for pre-Chernobyl caesium data on the fell-top vegetation, soils, and sheep; they
asked for these in order to test MAFF's assertion that there had been no significant
contamination before Chernobyl. However, MAFF's reply was to refer first to an
official document which contained only post-Chernobyl data (MAFF 1987), and then
to data which included pre-1986 monitoring on the lowland coastal strip, but still
no fell-top data. The farmers saw this as evidence that the authorities were trying
to cover up - either that they did have data which showed high fell-top levels of
caesium before Chernobyl, or that they had no data at all! If the former, they were
guilty of straightforward lying and conspiracy to conceal a longer-standing contami-
nation from Sellafield: if the latter, they were guilty of at least gross complacency
and incompetence, but possibly also conspiracy to remain deliberately ignorant of the
levels which prevailed before Chernobyl forced them to look. In addition, the 1957
fire had provided an ideal opportunity - apparently neglected - to have done the
necessary research which would have avoided mistakes in the 1986 prediction:
Going back to the 1957 fire, nobody really knows what that did, what effect it had on
the land and that, because they never tested it . . . A lot of people have it in their
minds that they [the UK authorities] were just waiting for something like this
[Chernobyl] to blame.

T h i s indicates a belief that the authorities had done secret research, had found high
 34 BRIAN WYNNE

levels and had decided to cover up - waiting for the chance, which Chernobyl pro-
vided, to pass on the blame. It also encouraged the farmers to conclude that they
and their families had been used as mere objects of scientific research.
In fact the question of whether the authorities had done previous research in the
Cumbrian fells, and thus knew that the radioactive caesium contamination would
last much longer, is extremely complex. What counts as 'previous research' is itself
open to interpretive differences; some ecologists we interviewed said afterwards that
they knew, and told the government at the time, but that they were ignored by the
'physicalist' ethos which dominated the official advisory mechanisms. This is the
subject of further research. In evidence to the House of Commons Agriculture Select
Committee in 1988, a local environmental group, Cumbrians Opposed to a Radioac-
tive Environment, alleged cover-up, and also noted that the government's advisory
body, the National Radiological Protection Board, had promulgated emergency refer-
ence levels for environmental radioactivity, only a month before Chernobyl, which
completely omitted the central environmental medium and food chain in the Cherno-
byl emergency, namely sheep meat.
The feeling of being used for research rather than being assisted by scientific
research was also reinforced by the offer which the authorities made to give people
a whole body scan for radioactive contamination. This the farmers dismissed as
useless information, being offered only so that the authorities could gather data, not
to give people information they could use. Thus, whilst this offer was being made,
the demand by the farmers for measurement of water-supply radioactive contami-
nation was ignored, even though this was information they could have acted on.
Again the scientists were exposed as ignorant or uninterested in local realities, this
time imposing false assumptions about agency on local people. These modes of
reasoning interlocked with other judgements which the farmers made of the con-
trolling institutions from which scientific claims were seen to emanate. Thus another
farmer related what he saw as deliberate official ignorance to Sellafield's denial of
claims that the site caused leukaemia:
The Department of Health could body monitor but they don't deliberately because if
they did and found high readings then various ministries could one day be accused of
irresponsibility in this regard. I think it self-evident that when BNFL [the Sellafield
operator] were accused of being responsible for leukaemias they were quick to say
'what evidence is there?' I have been told that if I make an accusation that my grand-
daughter has got leukaemia in the future and I suggest it was due to Sellafield they will
say to me 'what evidence have you?' It is a deliberate policy of government not to do
this appropriate monitoring and testing so that they can protect themselves against an
accusation of this nature. I would suggest we have another Christmas Island situation.
The first such situation was at BNFL [it was then the Atomic Energy Authority] in
1957. Now we have Chernobyl Cumbria, Chernobyl Wales, South Scotland and Ireland
. . . When you have bottomless financial pits like Sellafield sponsoring this, that and the
 Misunderstood misunderstandings 35

other in order to blackmail local feeling, why could they not instead do something posi-
tive like supporting controlled experiments to answer all the questions that need to be
answered?

Of course we can judge that these views were encouraged by probably unrealistic
ideas about what can be expected of scientific knowledge in a situation such as the
post-Chernobyl emergency. Even allowing for this factor however, the expressed
attitudes reflect a rich supply of evidence to support a model, which lay people held,
of the subordination of science to untrustworthy institutional and political interests,
and of a deep flaw in the very nature of science which drives it towards unrealism,
insensitivity to uncertainty and variability, and incapability of admitting its own
limits. (These can be seen as contradictory models of science, but are better treated
as rhetorical stances which deconstruct and delimit the authority of the social control
which the science represented in the experience of the farmers.) Analysis of the
logical structure of the farmers' responses to the scientific expertise indicates both
a far greater open-endedness about scientific logical structures and its institutional
and cultural forms than is usually recognised, and a greater need to acknowledge
and negotiate these as a condition of science's social legitimation and uptake.

Credibility: the social dimension

The way in which the farmers' scepticism was expressed suggests that Chernobyl
acted to release a large unrecognised and unexposed historical backlog of more private
disbelief, mistrust, and alienation of local people from the authorities, which related
to Sellafield; and which alienation had been quietly simmering and growing over the
years as one experience of official perfidion led into another. This would also explain
the apparently abrupt change in their position from acceptance to hostility: it was
probably not nearly as abrupt as it may have seemed, because there was already a
finely balanced 'private' ambivalence, and not by any means as complete and uncriti-
cal an acceptance of the site and its expert apologists as a superficial reading of public
quietude might suggest (Wynne 1987).
However, the dimension of this issue which drew in the farmers, and on which
they had the most confidence to judge the outside experts and to criticise them, was
the fact that, this time, expert responses to the crisis constituted massive inter-
ventions, disruptions, and denigrations of their normal practices and livelihood. The
administrative restrictions introduced by the government to prevent contaminated
lamb from reaching the market were tantamount to large-scale social control and
reorganisation, and denial of essential aspects of the farmers' social identity, to an
extent that the outside experts and bureaucrats did not remotely recognise. The
interventions required not only scientific understanding of the radioecology of caes-
ium in this particular physical environment; they also required this to be integrated
 36 BRIAN WYNNE

with knowledge of hill sheep-farming methods and decision-making processes, in

what is a highly specialist and particular kind of farming. That is, the complex
natural and social particulars of the situation of use of scientific knowledge needed to
be understood and negotiated into an effective hybrid with the scientific knowledge.
Whereas the hill farmers were quite reserved in their scepticism towards the scien-
tists on scientific matters, they were abrupt and outspoken about them when they
saw the extent of the scientists' ignorance of hill-farming environments, practices,
and decision-making. Even worse was the way that the outside experts did not recog-
nise the value of the farmers' own expertise, nor see the need to integrate it with
the science in order to manage the emergency properly. An example which ruined
the experts' credibility with many farmers was the advice given to farmers to keep
their lambs a little longer on cleaner valley pastures so as to allow high caesium
levels gained on the fell tops to decrease. This ignored the locally taken-for-granted
fact that hill farming in such areas is organised around a severe short supply of
valley grass, which would, as one farmer put it, 'be reduced to a desert in days' (and
with knock-on effects into future breeding) if it were not very carefully husbanded.
Naturally the farmers felt that their whole identity was under threat from outside
interventions based upon what they saw as ignorant but arrogant experts who did
not recognise what was the central currency of the farmers' social identity, namely
their specialist hill-farming expertise. This expertise was not codified anywhere: it
was passed down orally and by apprenticeship from one generation to the next, as
a craft tradition, reinforced in the culture of the area. The impact of the scientists'
hegemonistic cultural orientation on their general credibility showed itself repeatedly:
There was the official who said he expected levels would go down when the sheep
were being fed on imported foodstuffs, and he mentioned straw. I've never heard of a
sheep that would even look at straw as fodder. When you hear things like that it makes
your hair stand on end. You just wonder what the hell are these blokes talking about?
When we hill men heard them say that we just said, what do this lot know about
anything? If it wasn't so serious it would make you laugh.

Another derided the experts' ignorance of what were elementary facts of life to hill
farmers:

If you start fattening lambs and sell twenty, the next twenty get fat quicker, because
you've got more grazing. But if you keep them all . . . [gesticulation of disaster]. But
that's the problem with the ministry - trying to tell them those sort of things. That's
where the job has fallen down a lot. They couldn't understand that you were going to
sacrifice next year's lamb crop as well. They just couldn't grasp that!

Scientists and Ministry officials were often seen as indistinguishable; the most
prominent officials explaining and defining official decisions were scientists. The
organisational hierarchy within MAFF seemed to reflect such problems in that
 Misunderstood misunderstandings 37

officials in the local Division at Carlisle, who did know and understand hill-farming
culture, had no scientific standing, and so had little influence on the scientist policy
advisers in Whitehall when they tried to act as a conduit for local farmers' knowledge.
But there was also a deeper structural convergence between the forms of monopolistic
scientific representation of the issues, and the forms of centralised administrative
intervention and reorganisation of farming practices. The significant elements of
scientific representation in this respect were:

• its artificial standardisation of variations in local physical environment, farming

conditions, and practices (hence farmers); and
• its ethos of prediction and control, which engendered an exaggerated sense
of certainty, and which conflicted sharply with the farmers' ethos of adaptation
and acceptance of intrinsic lack of control.

These coincided with the centralised formal nature of the administrative inter-
ventions, which reduced the long-established individualism, informality, and flexi-
bility of farm-management decision-making to an extension of bureaucracy. The
farmers were quite familiar with uncertainty on several fronts and thus with adap-
tation to factors beyond their control. This deep cultural outlook - reflected in their
intellectual frameworks as well as in their whole way of life - was simply incompatible
with the scientific-bureaucratic cultural idiom of standardisation, formal and inflex-
ible methods and procedures, and prediction and control.
These dimensions of incompatibility and lack of mutual credibility existed at a
structural level which was deeper than that of evidence and information. They lay
at the level of moral, or cultural recognition. Each side only recognised, even as
possible evidence, claims expressed within its cultural style. Thus, for example, the
scientists had an a priori credibility gap to overcome when they stated things so
categorically and universally, before the substance of the statement was even reached.
By the same token the farmers' expertise was not recognised because it was not
formally organised in documentary, standardised, and control-oriented ways recog-
nisable to scientific culture; and their later claims for compensation encountered the
inflexible bureaucratic demand for formal documentation, dates, prices, numbers,
proofs, and signatures in a way which was entirely alien to their own culture.
This sense of being ensnared by an alien and unrecognising combination of science
and bureaucracy was neatly captured in two typical comments:
They've been watching too much of 'One Man and his Dog' [a popular national
television programme where shepherds compete in driving and penning sheep, under
artificially simple conditions] . . . They think you just stand at the bottom of the fell
and wave a handkerchief and the sheep come running.

Another, after a detailed explanation of complex differences between farming prac-

 38 BRIAN WYNNE

Table 1.1 Lay criteria for judgement of science

(i) Does the scientific knowledge work}
For example: predictions fail,
(ii) Do scientific claims pay attention to other available knowledge?
For example: scientists monitor sheep without paying attention to where they
graze, whereas farmers know where on open fells they graze,
(iii) Does scientific practice pay attention to other available knowledge?
For example: when scientists devise and conduct field experiments which the
farmers know will not work,
(iv) Is the form of the knowledge as well as the content recognisable?
For example: degrees of expressed certainty, standardisation, aggregation,
(v) Are scientists open to criticism?
For example: no recognition of other legitimate knowledges and expert actors; no
admission of errors, omissions, or oversights,
(vi) What are the social/institutional affiliations of experts?
For example: imputed social/political biases and interests; historical track record of
trustworthiness, openness,
(vii) What issue 'overspill' exists in lay experience?
For example: from Chernobyl to Windscale-Sellafield; lack of rational connection
for scientists because institutional dimensions defined out a priori, but for lay
people continuity depending on institutional models of agency and responsibility in
decision and knowledge construction.

tices even within his own small valley, reflecting different microconditions, lamented:
'This is what they [the experts] can't understand. They think a farm is a farm and
a ewe is a ewe. They think we just stamp them off a production line or something.'
Thus underlying overt clashes of knowledge, information, evidence, and belief
were incompatible social and cultural structures, prescribed modes of social interac-
tion. The scientific knowledge, in the aggregation and standardisation of data and
parameters by which it was organised, also expressed commitments about the levels
of political standardisation and control of the farmers, and in effect prescribed an
alien cultural mode for them. It was far from simply 'information' to either use or
misuse.
Thus the scientific perspective was just as socially grounded, conditional and
value-laden as the other. Its credibility was influenced not so much by what it said
directly and explicitly, as in the way it was institutionally and intellectually organised,
including lack of recognition of its cultural and institutional biases - its own tacit
social body language. As explained later, it suffered from its own lack of reflexivity.
Analysis of this credibility gap allows us to identify factors which affect the social
credibility of science. These are summarised in Table 1.1 (see above), as criteria by
 Misunderstood misunderstandings 39

which lay people rationally judge the credibility and boundaries of authority of expert
knowledge. It is easier to understand the resilience of disputes over the authority of
scientific knowledge when these several layers of the social and cultural framing of
expert and lay discourses are recognised. They are structurally identical to the factors
shaping the logics of dispute and development within science; it is just that in public
situations the prior mechanisms of social closure are, by definition, less powerful.
This analysis suggests that reflexive recognition of its own conditionality is a
pre-requisite for science's greater public legitimation and uptake; yet this requires
more than an intellectual advance from science; it requires institutional reform of
its modes of organisation, control, and social relations. This would involve, inter
aliay recognition of new, socially extended peer groups legitimated to offer criticism
of scientific bodies of knowledge from beyond the confines of the immediate exclusive
specialist scientific peer group. The social definition of such extended peer groups
would relate to the context of use of the scientific specialties concerned; and criticism
would include explicit negotiation of the social criteria or epistemology of knowledge
for the situation (Jasanoff 1990; Funtowicz and Ravetz 1992; Knorr-Cetina 1989).
This approach to public understanding of science therefore underlines the point
reflected in other sociological analyses of scientific knowledge, that the boundaries
of the scientific and the social are social conventions, predefining relative authority
in ways which may be inappropriate, and which are open to renegotiation (Jasanoff
1987; Star and Griesemer 1989). The practical process of developing that negotiation
first requires recognition that existing approaches and discourse misrepresent this
conventional character as if it were naturally determined.

Conclusions: lay reflexivity and social identities

A productive way of analysing the interactions between hill sheep-farmers and scien-
tists in this case, is to see each social group attempting to express and defend its social
identity. The farmers experience the scientists as denying, and thus threatening, their
social identity by ignoring the farmers' specialist knowledge and farming practices,
including their adaptive decision-making idiom. They also experience the scientists
as engaged in a conspiracy with government against hill farmers, initially to deny
any need for long-term restrictions and later to claim an innocent mistake in predic-
tion - a combination of circumstances which influenced many farmers to make unfor-
tunate decisions and to lose heavily as a result. Coming on top of the further hard-
ships and external controls besetting the hill farmers in an area which is a
tourist-dominated national park, their treatment by the scientists and bureaucrats
after Chernobyl was almost the final straw in a baleful succession of blows to their
cultural and social identity.
The scientists on the other hand were expressing and reproducing their intellec-
 40 BRIAN WYNNE

tual-administrative framework of prediction, standardisation and control, in which

uncertainties were 'naturally' deleted, and contextual objects, such as the farmers
and their farms, were standardised and 'black-boxed' in ways consistent with this
cultural idiom. Whatever private awareness they may or may not have had of the
cultural limits and precommitments of their science, they successfully suppressed
these.
These social identities were not completely predetermined and clear, nor were
they immune to interactive experience and negotiation. My main point is that this
dimension should be seen as the level from which explanation of lay responses to
science is to be derived, and in which the factors and processes shaping credibility
or 'understanding' can be identified.
The lay people in this case showed themselves to be more ready than the scientific
experts to reflect upon the status of their own knowledge, and to relate it to that of
others and to their own social identities. Thus, for example, the farmers implicitly
recognised their social dependency upon the scientific experts as the certified public
authorities on the issues, even if, as they indicated in interview, they held dissenting
informal beliefs which they could defend along the lines described before. As one
farmer put it: 'You can't argue with them because you don't know - if a doctor jabs
you up the backside to cure your headache, you wouldn't argue with him, would
you?', the suggestion being that when the expert tells you unbelievable things, you
do not overtly argue, thereby inviting denigration. As another said: 'We can't argue
with them, but you can think your own ideas. I still think it [the radioactive caesium]
was here before.'
These more private beliefs were rarely displayed in public, and the farmers refused
to confess to such overt dissent in media interviews. It was made clear to us that
one reason for this was that the farmers identified socially with family, friends, and
neighbours who were part of the Sellafield industrial workforce. They recognised
their own indirect and sometimes direct social dependency upon the plant - not
only neighbours, but also close relatives of the hill farmers work there. Thus, under-
lying and bounding their expressed mistrust of the authorities and experts, there
was a countervailing deep sense of social solidarity and dependency - of social identi-
fication with material kinship, friendship, and community networks which needed
to believe Sellafield was well controlled and its surrounding experts credible.
Thus social alienation and identification coexist in the same persons and communi-
ties, leaving deep ambivalence and apparent inconsistency in relevant beliefs and
corresponding structures of 'understanding'. These can only be understood by refer-
ence to the multiplex, not necessarily coherent, dimensions of social identities
expressed in interleaved social networks and experiences. Whilst trust is a key dimen-
sion of 'public understanding' and perceptions of risks, it should not be reified into
 Misunderstood misunderstandings 41

an objective entity. It is a profoundly relational term, a function of the complex web

of social relations and identities.
All this could be interpreted as yet another example of the lamentable inconsist-
ency and impossible fickleness of lay beliefs. The conventional model of rationality
would include a principle of cognitive consistency as measured against some canons
of abstract logic. The 'rational' approach championed by modern scientific culture
would assume inconsistency, imprecision, or ambivalence to be manifestations of
intrinsic feebleness. However, we begin to see that such absolutist categories are
actually moral or cultural stances, ones which assume control is an overriding value,
yet without being able to recognise the cultural nature of this driving commitment.
What is revealed in this case is a deeper and more complex consistency in public
reasoning than that recognised by such simplistic models. In the real world people
have to reconcile or adapt to living with contradictions which are not necessarily
within their control to dissolve. Whereas the implicit moral imperative driving sci-
ence is to reorganise and control the world so as to iron out contradiction and ambi-
guity, this is a moral prescription which may be legitimately rejected, or at least
limited, by people. They may opt instead for a less dominatory, more flexible and
adaptive relationship with their physical and social worlds. In this orientation, ambi-
guity and contradiction are not so much of a threat, because control and manipulation
are not being sought or expected. This is no less legitimate a form of rationality
than the scientists', and the 'public understanding of science' field needs to recognise
this, and build upon it, in both research and in practice.
The advance from focusing on cognitive dimensions (often assumed public
deficiencies) to trust and credibility is important. But closer examination in this
case-study of the basis of trust and credibility falsifies the predominant analytical
tendency to treat these as unambiguous, quasi-cognitive categories of belief or atti-
tude which people supposedly choose to espouse or reject (Renn 1991; Jupp and
Irwin 1989; Jupp 1989). My analysis suggests instead that 'credibility' and 'trust'
are themselves analytical artefacts which represent underlying tacit processes of social
identity negotiation, involving senses of involuntary dependency on some groups,
and provisional or conditional identification with others, in an endemically fluid and
incomplete historical process.
Thus what the hill farmers believed about the scientists and their assertions was
rich in insights and refinement, on several levels beyond the one-dimensional
reductionism of scientific logic alone. But this richness was also pervaded by an
ambivalence reflecting their multiple and conflicting social networks and relations.
It would have been easy to have marked them down as mere 'don't knows' in a more
efficient attitude survey, even though this would have been a grotesque distortion
of the true position. Indeed it is a serious challenge to large-scale survey methods
 42 BRIAN WYNNE

to ask how they would have even identified these dimensions and whether they
do not inevitably reinforce - normatively and conceptually - scientistic models of
monovalent instrumental individuals.
Recognition of this multi-dimensional, even internally contradictory character of
belief allows a more accurate perspective on the apparent fickleness of public
responses to risks and scientific knowledge which is much lamented by authorities.
If we assume that widely observed lack of public dissent to expert reassurances
equals (voluntary espoused) public acceptance, then an apparently sudden shift to
opposition and rejection seems capricious, irrational, and uncontrollably emotive. If,
on the other hand, we recognise the tacit existing alienation and ambivalence often
underlying surface quietude, we may see that what looks like a sudden shift of atti-
tude, a 'betrayal', was nothing of the kind - it may have been only a very small shift
in the complex balance of components of social identity which people are holding
in tension with one another. This intrinsic instability of actors' 'loyalties' is some-
thing which is not fully recognised in Latour and Callon's theoretical vocabulary of
enrolment and representation of actors by scientists, as they build intellectual-social
empires by tying in those actors, appropriately defined, to their particular role in
the edifice. Thus Callon's account of the 'betrayal' of the marine biologists by scallop
fishermen of St Brieuc Bay who had seemed to have internalised the identity which
the scientists had articulated for them, does not recognise the possible private ambiv-
alence of the fishermen about their designated identity even before the 'betrayal',
which may thus have been much less of a shift than it appears in Callon's otherwise
superb account (Callon 1986).
Thus the cognitivist presumption that risks, or scientific knowledge, exist indepen-
dently as an object for measurable public attitudes or beliefs, is left at least two steps
behind. The first step is the recognition that the trustworthiness and credibility of
the social institutions concerned are basic to people's definition of risks, or uptake
of knowledge, and that this is reasonable, indeed unavoidable. Thus 'understanding'
science is a function of experience, judgement and understanding of science's insti-
tutional forms as much as of its cognitive contents. However the second step is to
recognise that trust and credibility are themselves analytically derivative of social
relations and identity-negotiation; thus, like risk, they too should not be treated
as if they have an objective existence which can be unambiguously measured and
manipulated.
Having advanced the case for social identity as the more fundamental concept for
explaining responses to science and risks however, it should be accepted that this
term is itself not unproblematic. To claim that it offers more explanatory depth is
not to claim it is empirically pure, coherent, and unambiguously identifiable.
The theoretical orientation of this chapter coincides with those perspectives which
treat identities as intrinsically incomplete and open-ended, and as an endlessly
 Misunderstood misunderstandings 43

revised narrative attempting to maintain provisional coherence across multiple social

roles and reference groups (Hobsbawn and Ranger 1984; Giddens 1991; Shotter and
Gergin 1988). Beliefs and values are functions of social relationships and patterns
of moral and social identification. This stands in sharp contrast to the taken-for-
granted (and hence rarely articulated) commitment underlying conventional
approaches, in which values and beliefs are taken to be coherent, self-sufficient, and
discrete entities, and where social identities are simply the aggregate of individual
beliefs and values. In this perspective social interaction is recognised only as an
instrumental device to maximise preferences and values, not as an activity with moral
and social meaning in its own right (Burke 1991; Bailey 1968).
The case shows the unacknowledged reflexive capability of lay people in articulat-
ing responses to scientific expertise. They are able to reflect on and develop their
own social position as part of a 'dependent' response in which they are supposed to
enjoy no powers of independent critical rationality autonomous from 'proper' assimi-
lation of scientific understanding. Indeed it is interesting that those who would be
regarded as the representatives of traditional society showed this reflexive capability,
whilst the putative representatives of enlightened modernity, namely the scientists,
did not (Wynne 1993; Michael 1992). The scientists show no overt ability to reflect
upon their own social positioning, that is upon the latent social models which their
scientific interventions imposed on the farmers. Perhaps the distribution of reflexive
capability (or impulse) is itself a contingent function of social relations of power.
It is not true to say that scientists are not reflexive, in that they do show a capacity
to reflect upon the nature of their practice, its contingencies and limits. However,
this may (for all social groups) be brought about only by criticism and a related
sense of insecurity, rather than by any intrinsic qualities of self-criticism.2 Thus the
extent of such reflexivity in science is open to question, both in how deep it goes
into examination of scientific founding commitments (hence identities) and in how
openly such critical self-examination is expressed to other social groups, for example
in public or policy debate. Such articulated self-criticism would display the uncer-
tainties in scientific knowledge, and at the same time expose as negotiable science's
definition and role in relation to other social groups. As I have suggested in this
chapter, ambivalence is usually treated as intellectual feebleness - the antithesis of
rationality and 'clear thinking'. But it may be a necessary corollary of a social commit-
ment to disavowing control of others, in which case the remit of scientific rationality
(as usually conceived) is seen in a radically different light (Harding 1986).
The issues and problems in public understanding of science thus cannot be div-
orced, as scientific bodies repeatedly assume they can, from the epistemological issues
of the social purposes of knowledge, and what counts as 'sound knowledge' for differ-
ent contexts. These in turn highlight questions about the institutions of science -
its forms of ownership, control, and practice. To preclude these issues from public
 44 BRIAN WYNNE

debate is to undermine the possibilities of an effective public uptake and culture of

science, and in this sense self-consciously scientific institutions are often their own
worst enemy.
The intellectual properties of reflexivity or its lack (or to put it another way, of
the epistemological principles of science) are not independent of the institutional
forms of science. Thus it becomes evident why the quality of its institutional forms -
the organisation, control, and social relations - is not just an optional embellishment
of science in public life, but an essential subject of critical social and cultural evalu-
ation. It is a crucial missing part of the contemporary non-debate of science's social
purchase and legitimacy.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Permission to publish an adapted version of a paper previously published in the journal Public Under-
standing of Science 3,3 (1992), is gratefully acknowledged. The work was supported by the UK ESRC.
I am also grateful to colleagues and friends under the Science Policy Support Group network of research
on public understanding of science, for rewarding discussion and moral support, especially to Peter
and Jean Williams, John Wakeford, Mike Michael, Alan Irwin, Rosemary McKechnie, and Frances
Price.

NOTES

1. Williams, P., and Williams, J. The quotes are from transcripts of interviews, which were
taped and then transcribed in abridged form to record elements of relevance to this study.
Over fifty interviews were conducted with affected farmers, farmers' wives, MAFF officials,
scientists, farmers' representatives, and others. Each interview lasted between one and two
hours; several repeat visits were made, allowing some observation of changing beliefs. The
interviews were mostly conducted by Peter and Jean Williams, accompanied by the author
on about twelve occasions. Public meetings and markets were also attended and observed.
All the quotes in the text are verbatim quotes from interview tapes.
2. This is a distinction recognisable in the approaches to reflexivity of Beck and Giddens.
Whereas Giddens (1991) tends to assume that reflexivity is an intrinsic self-transforming
property of science, and hence of modernity as influenced by scientific culture, Beck (1992)
recognises the social basis of scientific knowledge which means that moral and cultural
commitments inevitably become identified with scientific knowledge. Thus reflexivity is in
Beck's view the result of political criticism and contradiction rather than an inherent
institutional trait. Although I have other criticisms of Beck's perspective (Wynne 1996), this
chapter is on this aspect much closer to Beck than to Giddens.

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 2 Science and HelPs kitchen: the local
understanding of hazard issues
ALAN IRWIN, ALISON DALE, AND DENIS SMITH

You'd be more worried if you went round. It would frighten you to bloody death. You'd just
see Hell's kitchen - you wouldn't know how they controlled everything.
(Manchester resident discussing possibility of a visit to the local chemical works)

In this chapter, the focus is on environmental threats - one of the most topical
and pressing areas of public debate and controversy involving science. Rather than
considering environmental issues as they relate to global or national concerns, we
will focus on immediate questions of pollution and hazard as they affect specific
local communities. Whilst Steven Yearley tackles some of these questions in Chapter
Eight with regard to environmental organisations, our attention will be concentrated
on community residents who have a more 'everyday' approach to living in a hazard-
ous environment. Given the present concern over environmental issues, what sources
of information exist and how useful do they appear? In what ways do people relate
to and 'make sense' of those sources of expertise? Going further, we will also consider
the relationship between the provision of technical information and the social context
within which that information is developed, disseminated, and received.
The central theme of this chapter is, therefore, that of 'citizens' and 'sources' set
against matters of environmental concern. In this we are approaching a topic which
recurs throughout this book - albeit, as we will see, from a distinctly 'local' and
community-oriented perspective. We are also selecting a theme which was identified
by the Royal Society as a gap in current knowledge: 'We therefore also recommend
that the sources from which individuals obtain their understanding of science be
actively investigated.'1 However, whilst it is indeed important that we address such
practical questions as where citizens turn for advice and information about technical
matters or what motivates them to do so, our discussion of 'citizens and sources' also
needs to take account of a number of more theoretical factors. At this stage, three
particular aspects of the perspective adopted in this chapter need to be stressed.
Firstly, it seems fundamental to an appreciation of the public understanding of -
in this case - hazard issues that full appreciation is accorded to the pre-existing
 48 ALAN IRWIN, ALISON DALE, AND DENIS SMITH

knowledges and information networks possessed by citizens. The conventional

approach to these questions is to assume a crude 'deficit' (or tabula rasa) model of
the science-citizen relationship. The emphasis by the Royal Society and others on
science and its dissemination can lead to the adoption of a 'top-down' model where
only certain forms of knowledge are seen as privileged and legitimate. From this
high-science perspective, the central issue is the public failure to understand science.
Rather than assuming this perspective, our intention here is to portray the provision
of technical information as part of an interaction with other forms of knowledge,
understanding, and communication. More particularly, we wish to highlight those
context-specific (or 'local') knowledges which are shared by particular groups of
citizens. To what extent, for example, do such local knowledges match with, contra-
dict, or simply ignore the 'official' technical statements emerging from industrial
sources? Rather than simply taking for granted from the outset a 'public failure',
the intention in this chapter is to consider just how valid the Royal Society model
really is. Hopefully, we can also shed some light on why differing public reactions
to science occur.
Secondly, and equally importantly, at the same time as appreciating the diversity
and range of citizen understandings we should also be alert to the variety of technical
expertises which are made available to citizens. Thus, rather than seeing 'science'
as an undifferentiated mass, it is important to explore the kinds of technical infor-
mation which are offered by different social groups (for example, local industry,
councillors, the town hall) in different social situations. In addition to having an
effect on the selection of information for dissemination (who should be told what and
when), it is possible that citizen demands will also have an effect in shaping the
technical knowledge which is developed (for example, citizen demands for more
information concerning the health effects of low-level pollution can actually stimulate
new lines of scientific research if only for defensive reasons on the part of industry).
Rather than portraying citizens as the 'problem', therefore, we need to maintain
a critical perspective on the selective development and dissemination of technical
information. In suggesting this focus, we should also be alert to the possibility that
different technical knowledges will embody different institutional and social
commitments.
Thirdly, and as a consequence of the above two points, it is important to recognise
that science as such often 'disappears' from view within local discourses - in this
case, concerning environmental threat. At one level, therefore, the communications
and responses discussed in this chapter make little use of the language of science,
nor do scientific experts play a central role in community discussions of the pollution
issue. Nevertheless, implicit models of technical expertise are deployed in, for
example, the messages of reassurance from industrial officials to local residents con-
cerning the safety of the chemical works on their doorstep. On a specific occasion,
 Science and Hell's kitchen 49

this meant that one of the companies used quantitative data about workplace safety
in order to suggest that public safety was improving (but without drawing attention
to the differences in these categories). Science and technology serve in this loaded
social context as a general ideological support for current social and institutional
practices. In particular, scientific expertise may be used as an underpinning for the
suggestion that certain institutions can be trusted by public groups. However, since
the companies in question are not generally exposed to technical challenge, this
important legitimatory function remains largely implicit. Nevertheless, residents are
sceptical of 'experts' and their relationship to industrial interests. Science, therefore,
plays an important role within community risk discussions - but at a level removed
from that suggested by the Royal Society.
The points made so far in this introductory section all suggest the significance of
the social and cultural context in which knowledges and understandings (whether
explicitly 'technical' or not) are developed and communicated. As will be argued
throughout this chapter, it is impossible to comprehend the 'public understanding
of science' without also comprehending the social and cultural processes through
which public knowledge is communicated and generated. Thus, we need to be sensi-
tive to the possibility that different forms of 'knowledge relation' may exist in differ-
ent social settings. In this chapter, that setting is one of 'community responses to
pollution' which may distinguish it from the other cases in this book.
In tackling these issues here, we will begin from the assumption that - far from
being 'information poor' - groups of citizens actually have access to a range of cul-
tural resources: 'A culture is common meanings, the product of a whole people, and
offered individual meanings, the product of a man's whole committed personal and
social experience.'2 The issue to which we will return throughout this chapter con-
cerns the place of science within this network of 'common meanings'.
In order to pursue the 'citizens and sources' issues as redefined above, our presen-
tation will focus on a detailed study of two specific localities within Greater Manches-
ter (in the north west of England). Both of these (i.e. the Clayton/Beswick area of
east Manchester and Eccles within the city of Salford) can be characterised as highly
urban and also industrial in character. Each possesses a large amount of hazardous
industry close to major housing areas.
This housing consists of old terraced properties as well as more modern council
accommodation - the latter a cause of particular concern due to its relatively recent
construction close to the chemical industry. Indeed, one estate in Eccles was built
during the 1970s reportedly against the advice of the Health and Safety Executive
(HSE) on the grounds of major hazard risk. However, the local authority was keen
to utilise the land in order to rehouse those previously living in an area earmarked
for slum clearance - necessitating a relocation of some four miles which one resident
described as 'like coming to Australia'. Each area is criss-crossed with a number of
 50 ALAN IRWIN, ALISON DALE, AND DENIS SMITH

main roads carrying both commuter and industrial traffic (including chemical tankers
to and from the works). While certain pockets of middle-class housing can be found
in the two areas, the majority of residents can be reasonably unproblematically classi-
fied as working class.
Having selected these two areas - largely on the grounds of physical accessibility,
researchability in terms of local contacts, and the inherent interest for us presented
by the two communities (which at first sight displayed both fascinating similarities
and contrasts) - we then focused on a number of high-salience hazard issues in order
to explore citizen information-seeking strategies and communication processes. Thus,
our approach has been to capture a specifically local dimension to the relationship
between citizens and sources and - within this - to select highly visible topics where
some efforts might already have been made to seek out information and advice. The
topics selected were pollution and major accident hazards from nearby chemical
plants, road traffic safety and (as a less community-oriented contrast) health and
safety at work.
Our main method of exploring these issues was through a small-scale doorstep
questionnaire followed by a series of semi-structured interviews. In what follows,
we will draw upon both questionnaire and interview data and concentrate on
responses to the hazards of the local chemical industry and on the information
sources that exist. The methodology used in our study - and especially the use of
survey data - marks it apart from the other projects in this collection which typically
draw upon more qualitative and ethnographic data. However, in this case it seemed
valuable to combine qualitative and quantitative methods in order - at least poten-
tially - to contrast the picture of everyday 'common meaning' which emerged from
each. Of course, both our research methods focused on well-defined geographical
locations rather than seeking to present a de-contextualised view of 'public under-
standing'. In that way, the methodology employed here differs radically from
attempts at national surveys of attitudes and understandings.

Citizens, sources, and local environmental threats

One immediately striking aspect of our investigation was the indicated level of con-
cern in the two selected areas over hazard issues. Thus, comparable questionnaire
surveys have typically indicated that such issues figure relatively low in comparison
to other social issues such as unemployment, violence, and housing conditions. How-
ever, replies to our question 'Is there anything about living in this area that you
dislike or that worries you?' suggested that not only was there a high level of general
concern about the area (with only 31.8% replying 'no' to that question), but also
that hazard issues figured prominently as part of that concern. As one approximate
indicator of this, we present in Table 2.1 the percentage of questionnaire respondents
 Science and Hell's kitchen 51

Table 2.1 Comparison of the two areas - issues of concern (prompted)

ECCLES CLAYTON
No. % No. %

State of the health service 105 56.5 62 36.3

Crime and violence 151 81.2 130 76
Factory accidents or pollution from factories which might affect 86 46.2 98 57-3
the neighbourhood
Education problems 47 25-3 28 16.4
Risks of traffic accidents 56 30.1 52 304
Inflation 105 56.5 69 40.4
Health and safety at work 22 11.8 19 11.1
Unemployment 93 50 94 55
Housing conditions 52 28 4i 24

in the areas who (when prompted on each) considered the above issues to be a matter
of concern. The percentages are of total responses from that area.
Whilst it will be argued throughout this chapter that questionnaire data needs to
be generated, presented, and interpreted with great care lest it conceal underlying
social and cultural processes, Table 2.1 suggests a striking picture of concern over
factory accidents/pollution. This concern emerges all the more strongly given the
areas in question which have been greatly affected by unemployment and urban
decay. Especially in Clayton, pollution and explosion as a consequence of the chemi-
cal industry represent a major topic of local anxiety. Less formal interviews in both
Eccles and Clayton reinforce this picture with constant references to noise, smell, and
atmospheric pollution ('there's a corn-flakes smell and a blue haze, every chimney is
on the go at night' - Eccles resident), and also to the risks of explosion ('If anything
did go up it would take everything in a seven-mile radius. That's what's said gener-
ally amongst local people' - Eccles resident), as well as general health problems
('This place is top of the league for chest complaints' - Eccles resident).
Undoubtedly, therefore, environmental questions figure prominently amongst the
everyday concerns of these two communities. These concerns seem to have been
triggered and reinforced by a history of relatively minor pollution incidents and
persistent local complaints. However, it is important to place this concern with
hazard in the context of other community concerns - especially those surrounding
unemployment. We take just one exchange between two Clayton residents as an
illustration of this:
Ri- I would say most people around here worry about the Aniline.
R2- If Clayton Aniline shut down it would be a bloody ghost town around here.
 52 ALAN IRWIN, ALISON DALE, AND DENIS SMITH

This theme of hazard issues balancing against employment concerns reflects well the
reality of two areas which have been subject to a considerable amount of de-
industrialisation in recent years. The perceived tension between the general argument
that 'industry like this shouldn't be on our doorstep', and also that 'what this area
needs is more jobs', forms a regular basis for discussion. Already, we see something
of the dynamic local context within which different information sources will be inter-
preted - and also generated.
If we move beyond this specific tension, concern over hazard is portrayed more
broadly as one part of the pressures (and pleasures) of everyday life in a particular
community - a point made in different ways by the above two Clayton residents:
R2— I like the people, that's what I like about the place. No thuggery. I like my house.
There's a factory outside, but so what? I wouldn't want to move.

Ri— . . . but you wouldn't want to move from your work. We stayed here for the work, the
schools, house prices are relatively cheap. I'm happy with the area. It's not brilliant for
shops but that's no problem. It's that place [the local chemical plant] that worries me.
They've got a duty to tell people things, but they've neglected it. We're living on a
time bomb. I bet there's more going on than we know.

The above quotations suggest the variety of local responses to environmental issues,
but also indicate that these responses form part of a wider assessment of the area
and what it means to live there. Whilst, from an outsider's perspective, hazard issues
can be separated off from other concerns, for a member of the community the picture
is more complex - a point which was made especially well in a group interview in
Eccles. At the end of a one-and-a-half hour session, one of us attempted (somewhat
clumsily) to conclude a particularly lyrical discussion of environmental issues only
to be interrupted with a plea of 'what are we going to do about his rent increase?'.
Although this caused some embarrassment to other participants, the underlying
message was quite clear - this issue is just one part of everyday life, do not take it
out of context or grant it unreal prominence.
What is true of hazard issues is, we will argue, also true of science and issues of
'public understanding'; it is highly artificial to filter out just this factor from its
larger social and cultural context. Whilst, from the perspective of the scientific com-
munity, science 'disappears' within everyday life; from the perspective of local
people, science has no necessarily special or privileged status alongside such routine
concerns as unemployment, rent increases, or factory pollution. Issues such as
'knowledge' or 'hazard' thus form part of a wider pattern of everyday social relations.
These general points about the context to hazard and information issues take on
full significance as we now address specific questions of 'citizens and knowledge
sources'. If we return to our formal survey, one question put to those who had
expressed concern (either prompted or unprompted) over chemical hazards was
 Science and Hell's kitchen 53

Table 2.2 'Have you ever been given, or tried yourself to get, information or advice
about the local chemical industry from . . .V
No. %
Chemical company 52 28.3
Community group 8 4.3
Emergency services 3 1.6
Local authority 9 4.9
Citizens Advice Bureau (CAB) 2 1.1
Local councillor 3 1.6
MP 1 0.5
HSE o
Elsewhere 4 2.2

whether they had been given, or tried themselves to obtain, information or advice
from a number of sources. Responses to this are summarised in Table 2.2.
Three aspects of this table deserve immediate comment. First of all, there is the
strikingly small proportion of those concerned about this issue who consider them-
selves to have either sought or received information. A similar situation occurs with
road traffic accidents and workplace safety. The second striking feature of Table 2.2
is the relatively high significance given to local industry as an information source.
This point accords well with the Royal Society's identification of industry as a major
source of technical guidance about their activities. Certainly, a strong feeling in our
study areas was that, since industry was likely to be the original source of all infor-
mation about risks and pollution, then it was probably just as well to go there directly
('Cos it's straight from the horse's mouth'). Thirdly, a number of local people
pointed out that not only has local industry the relevant information, but also that
it is 'convenient and close' and (very importantly) that 'if enough people went they
might do something'. At this point, we begin to see the linkage between 'information
seeking' and 'action seeking'.
These three points concerning the number of requests, their focus on industry and
their underlying motivation all need to be interpreted within the social context of
these two areas. One important dimension of this can be illustrated with reference
to a further part of our questionnaire. Table 2.3 represents the formal responses to
our question concerning the trustworthiness of various possible sources. As can be
seen, an interesting contrast emerges with Table 2.2.
Table 2.3 provides an intriguing snapshot of local opinion in our two study areas.
More importantly, it also implies something of the critical evaluation made by citizens
of potential information sources. Despite the regular assumption by those in scientific
institutions that 'science' is a straightforward and unitary category (so that the
 54 ALAN IRWIN, ALISON DALE, AND DENIS SMITH

Table 2.3 'There are various places that could provide you with information or advice
about the local chemical industry. How trustworthy do you think the following would
be as sources of information on such matters?'
Very trust- Trust- Untrust- Very untrust- Don't
worthy worthy worthy worthy know

Local chemical companies 9 (4.9) 41 (22.3) 71 (38.6 34 (18.5) 29 (15.8)

Local community groups 20(10.9) 99(53-8) 8(4.3) ° 57 (31)
Police 15 (8.2) 97 (52.7) 19 (10.3) 2 (1.1) 51 (27.7)
Fire service 68 (37) 9 1 (49-5) 2 (1.1) 0 23 (i2-5)
Local authority 8 (4.3) 73 (39-7) 30 (16.3) 7 (3.8) 66 (35.9)
CAB 32 (174) 104(56.5) 6 (3-3) 0 42 (22.8)
Local councillors 6 (3.3) 55 (29.9) 40 (21.7) 12 (6.5) 71(38.6)
Local MP 10 (54) 53 (28.8) 23 (12.5) 8 (4-3) 90 (48.9)
Health and Safety Executive 36 (19.6) 81 (44) 9 (4-9) 0 58 (3i-5)

problem of 'public understanding of science' is seen as one of getting more science

to the public rather than of assessing the kinds of science which might be made
available), the picture here is of local citizens discriminating between different
'knowledges' according to their source and the perceived social credibility of that
source. However, 'trustworthiness' must be balanced against some assessment of the
capability of that source in terms of citizen needs for practical action as well as for
information.
In order to illustrate this complex pattern of local assessments we can offer the
example of the fire service which emerges from Table 2.3 as the most trustworthy
of all - largely on the grounds that the service enjoys a high social standing ('They're
great men'). Whilst no one was prepared to disagree with this assessment, there was,
however, a general feeling that, whilst they would certainly be honest and truthful
('They'd have to be - they've got responsibility to the community'), they would not
be in a position to serve as an independent information source ('They could only
tell you just what the factory say they can tell the public').
This assessment of the trustworthiness and technical capability of the fire service
can be contrasted with, for example, that of 'local community groups' which emerged
from Table 2.3 as relatively trustworthy - albeit with a reasonable proportion of
'don't knows'. Comments here were more cautious than those regarding the fire
service ('Depending if they were involved in the local chemical industry') and unsure
as to whether they have the necessary resources ('They wouldn't know much about
it'). Thus, although seen as potentially having an important role to play (especially
 Science and Hell's kitchen 55

since this source was widely portrayed as sympathetic and helpful), reservations were
expressed about the kinds of advice which such groups might make available.
All of these points take on special weight if we now turn our attention to the
social organisation which is widely seen as the most important in these matters -
the chemical companies. As Table 2.2 suggested, this is the most significant
source of 'technical' information and advice for local people. However, perhaps
the most striking feature of Table 2.3 is that, despite this significance as an
actual source, the 'untrustworthy' rating given to local chemical companies is the
highest of all. Whilst it would be unfair to suggest that all local citizens share
this scepticism - and it must be noted that more people in Eccles than in Clayton
consider the industry to be 'trustworthy' - it can be stated that debate over the
trustworthiness of local industry forms a central part of social discourse over
these matters. Once again, therefore, we see the critical climate within which
technical information is received and, in particular, a local awareness of the
importance of the information's source.
This critical treatment of information sources in terms of their perceived trust-
worthiness and technical/practical capability represents an important part of the local
knowledge of life in these areas. Certainly, for example, any perceived disparity
between reassurances offered and subsequent (or previous) pollution incidents will
be seized upon by the community as a measure of untrustworthiness. Thus, 'infor-
mation' does not exist in a social vacuum, but is weighed in terms of previous experi-
ence and cultural evaluations. Such local knowledges will consist of a record of
previous incidents together with a variety of other factors such as an economic assess-
ment of local industry, the popularity of senior management, shared knowledge of
production processes and final products, the attitudes and opinions of friends and
neighbours, and the generalised outcome of simply living with a hazard site over a
period of time. Of course, compared to the formalised structures of science, this
knowledge will typically appear unsystematic and individual - being the outcome of
a process of bricolage3 rather than training. The knowledge structure will also, as we
have argued, view hazard and information issues as one part of a larger set of concerns
about the area and everyday life. However, none of these points imply that local
understandings are inadequate or deficient in comparison to formal, scientific under-
standing. On the contrary, they may well represent a more robust and well-tested
body of advice, information, and practical assistance than any new or externally
generated piece of technical evidence.
Some sense of the nature of this local discourse can be gleaned from comments
made during the questionnaire from those assessing the trustworthiness of 'local
chemical companies'. Comments are listed according to questionnaire response in
order to suggest the underlying pattern of assessment;
 56 ALAN IRWIN, ALISON DALE, AND DENIS SMITH

Local chemical companies -

VERY TRUSTWORTHY 'Wouldn't hide anything'

TRUSTWORTHY 'They'd have to tell the truth but they'd hold back a bit'
'Perhaps, but probably just tell you what they want you to know'

UNTRUSTWORTHY 'Well, I reckon they'd be a bit careful what they told you'
'I think they'd only tell you a load of blinding science to shut you
up'
'They wouldn't give you the full view — they've got their jobs to
think o f

VERY UNTRUSTWORTHY 'Wouldn't believe a word they said'

'They'd only tell you something to put your mind at rest'

DON'T KNOW 'They would say one thing and mean another'
'They would just let you know what they wanted you to know'

What is striking about the above comments is the extent to which - almost regardless
of the specific 'trustworthy' categorisation made by the respondent - they fit a pattern
of scepticism regarding local industry as a source of information. As suggested by
the above comments, this pattern seems as true of those who are sympathetic to the
chemical companies as of those who are more negative. To a high degree, local
citizens see industry as self-interested and as offering a very partial account of
environmental hazards from their activities. For example, one local science teacher
who saw the local chemical works as just 'doing their job' and as 'generally quite
responsible' felt that: 'the company would be the best place to go, but they would
only tell you certain things . . . They'd be capable of pulling the wool over [my]
eyes' (Eccles resident). Equally - and somewhat problematically for local industry -
enhanced efforts at information-giving can actually provoke greater suspicion; 'it's
only something for the company's benefit. . .'; 'They must be making a lot of money
to try so hard with us' (Clayton residents).
On the other hand, as we have suggested above, industry is seen as the only party
who can actually do anything about hazard reduction and, therefore, it is to them
that complaints and requests for information need to be addressed. However, the
fact that such a source will be consulted does not mean that its response will simply
be accepted at face value. Instead, the local culture encourages a critical evaluation
of new information in terms of the social assessment of the trustworthiness (and
degree of self-interestedness) of its source. Needless to say, this generalised social
response incorporates the judgements of science as well as other forms of output from
industry. Thus, the reference above to 'blinding science just to shut you up' reveals
much about the contextualised judgement regarding 'scientific' dissemination. The
model of science possessed by these residents (i.e. as straightforwardly reflecting
 Science and Hell's kitchen 57

dominant social interests) seems far again from the notion of 'pure' science apparently
held by groups such as the Royal Society.
Of course, this critical evaluation does not apply solely to local industry - all
other sources are likely to (and, indeed, do) undergo similar scrutiny. One regular
focus of interview discussion concerned the possibilities of 'independent' advice and
assistance, i.e. emanating from sources which would have no 'stake' in local develop-
ments. In particular, such advice was seen as potentially valuable in offering an
alternative to industry-based information: 'a letter from a scientist - that would be
OK . . . people would take notice. I'm not saying I'd swallow everything. I'd listen
then make up my own mind. There's no point in listening to the company. Better
to listen to the scientists' (Clayton resident).
Whilst some residents advocated the use of 'outsiders' (for example, non-partial
scientists) as an unbiased source of information, there was also an inevitable degree
of scepticism surrounding the neutrality of such individuals: 'The outside person
would tell you it's dangerous, but the company might co-opt them. The company
might give them money for their project, it might have got to them' (Clayton
resident).
The plea for totally 'independent expertise' may, therefore, in practice be
unmatchable. It also seems to suggest that there is seen to be such a concept as
'pure' science - but not within the everyday context as defined by local residents.
This view of science as worthy and important but 'out there' contrasts sharply with
the assessment of locally provided information which is co-optable and linked to its
particular source - and, therefore, not considered to be 'scientific'. Such an idealised
notion of 'science' as opposed to 'what industry tells us' reinforces the 'disappear-
ance' and perceived irrelevance of science within everyday life. The popular concept
of science as pure and disinterested thus makes it difficult to recognise within the
realities of everyday life in these two communities.
At an immediately practical level, there seems to be a demand - not for a single
authoritative source - but for a greater plurality of advice so that residents are not
left with what they perceive as a monopoly of self-interested information. As one
resident put it: 'Yes, they [the companies] are giving the right information, but I
wouldn't know any different. Trust . . . needs verification from outside' (Clayton
resident). This suggestion that the industry can be trusted so long as this trust is
'verified' sums up well the local assessment of suspicion mixed with an awareness
of dependence on that source - the company would not tell a direct lie (nor is it
seen in an entirely negative light), but some institutional structure is needed to
monitor their statements and activities at the formal, technical level. This point gains
even greater significance if we now consider more carefully the motivation behind
local citizens' requests for information and the kinds of response which they
receive.
 58 ALAN IRWIN, ALISON DALE, AND DENIS SMITH

Knowledges in context; information sources and local needs

In our questionnaire, we asked that (relatively small) section of the sample that had
actually sought out information on hazard issues 'What was it made you look for
this type of information?'. Responses to this question seem to fall into a pattern if
we categorise them across the three issues;
• on factory accidents/pollution
- for health reasons
- due to local accidents
- noise
- pollution/smell
- nuisance
- for study purposes
• on road traffic accidents
- to stop people speeding
- to stop traffic cutting down back lanes
- to get action
- to stop cars parking in the street
• on health and safety at work
- concern about accidents
- advice on how to tackle specific problems
- as a requirement of the job
- as part of a course
It seems very clear from the above headings (and also from the whole argument of
this chapter) that 'information-seeking' fits into the social context of these two areas
as portrayed here. The general picture was not one where requests were simply
curiosity-driven, but instead where a different - and more 'practical' - pattern of
motivations existed. Whilst curiosity may well play some part in information-seeking,
a stronger factor seemed to be the demand for action or the registering of a complaint.
Accordingly, a request for information was part of a larger process of attempting
substantive improvement in a specific situation. Put differently, information-seeking
emerges as an attempt to enhance one's control over everyday life and the external
conditions which help shape this. In such a situation, the value of science may be
somewhat less than advocates of an improved public understanding of science might
wish.
This point can also be explored from the opposite direction - why do concerned
people not seek out information? Whilst to the outside observer this may seem anom-
alous, apathetic, or indeed as a challenge to scientific evangelists to make 'science
more fun', from the perspective of local citizens information will be of little relevance
 Science and Hell's kitchen 59

if it cannot directly tackle the underlying problem. 'I've complained about things all
my life and it's brought me nothing but trouble' (Clayton resident). 'There's no
point - you wouldn't get anything done about it.'
This well-developed social model of perceived powerlessness needs to be acknowl-
edged as a basis for comprehending the everyday reality of two communities who
generally view technical information as a means to an end (i.e. an improved living
environment) rather than as an end in itself. Research in these two localities thus
opens up for discussion the relationship between local people as agents and scientific
understanding as a force for change. The general experience in these study areas
seemed to be that technical resources served as an obstacle to social action (for
example, in the direction of enhanced pollution control) rather than as a facilitator.
In that sense, local people felt themselves to be struggling against technical infor-
mation rather than actively employing it to help formulate and substantiate their
demands and concerns. As Ulrich Beck has expressed this situation: 'A permanent
experiment is being conducted, so to speak, in which people serving as laboratory
animals in a self-help movement have to collect and report data on their own toxic
symptoms against the experts sitting there with their deeply furrowed brows.'4
Certainly, the reassurances from industrial sources that 'everything was under
control' contrast sharply with local people's detailed testimony of smoking chimneys,
health complaints, noise, and smell. It is, therefore, important to consider in greater
detail the kinds of information which are given to local citizens. What information
response do local citizens consider themselves as receiving? Responses here with
regard to factory accidents/pollution took the following main forms:
• safety measures being taken by the company
• assurances that the site is safe and that the problem is under control
• information on what the company does for the community
• nothing much/not enough
Typically, residents complained that requests for action/information were met with
reassurances that 'everything is now OK' - thus leaving them no wiser as to whether
there was a real problem at the site or not. 'The company says "don't hesitate to
ring", they come round and apologise but they blame "problems" at the site - don't
tell you what it actually is' (Eccles resident).
It would appear, therefore, that local sources of technical information (and, par-
ticularly, the company which is seen as the source of technical expertise) tend to
couch any such information in a highly contextuaHsed form so that it is more likely
to offer reassurance or claims for the legitimacy of the source than to provide 'science'
of the kind that working scientists would acknowledge as such. However, it is also
important to recognise that there is no single 'science' to be tapped when it comes
to issues of environment and safety - instead, particular 'sources' serve to provide
 60 ALAN IRWIN, ALISON DALE, AND DENIS SMITH

particular views of uncertain and problematic expertises. Thus, for example, chemical
companies may choose to play down uncertainties when addressing local audiences
and to stress excellent working practices and recent safety records - often dismissing
any recent releases as isolated 'problems' which have now been eradicated.
In that fashion, technical information as provided by industry to the community
is constrained (or 'framed') within a broader social model based on the need to offer
certainty and reassurance to an ill-informed local public. Within this model, 'science'
serves as a broad legitimation for the information provided and for the authority of
the source. However, technical analysis as such is not typically made available to the
public - presumably on the grounds that they could not 'make sense' of this. Thus,
technical analysis around risk and pollution is used as a general, but not a specific,
rationale for the contextualised advice offered to local residents.
As we have seen, local citizens are likely to respond to this with the suspicion
that they are being misled by a 'smokescreen of good will' (Clayton resident). More
privately, industry officials will acknowledge the environmental problems posed by
their location close to residential areas and express the view (with varying degrees
of self-confidence) that - although they are operating to the best of their abilities -
accidents can indeed happen. However, the industry view is generally that - at least
in public - it is better to play down uncertainties than to feed local anxiety. Whilst
different companies are likely to adopt slightly different postures in this regard -
with one of the companies in our study area being notable for its attempts at 'open'
community relations - there do seem to be social as well as technical constraints on
the kinds of information which any single source can provide. These constraints can,
for example, be a major obstacle when industry-agreed information about emergency
procedures is distributed to the local population. Previous studies5 suggest that indus-
try's general message of reassurance and 'all is well' tend to distract from the need
for citizens to react promptly to unforeseen incidents. Of course, this conclusion is
particularly worrying when - as here - there is seen to be only one such technical
source available.
Put at its strongest, therefore, local contexts such as those discussed in this chapter
can produce a mismatch between the available 'sources' and the needs of citizens
for reliable, trustworthy, and practically useful technical information which can then
be supplemented to the available supply of local knowledge. In this case, we have
seen something of the scepticism surrounding available sources of information. We
have also seen the citizen dilemma whereby those sources which are perceived to be
trustworthy may not possess the necessary technical competence, whilst those which
do possess this are seen as self-interested (and hence untrustworthy). The pattern
which then develops is that local residents see local industry as the only source of
assistance, but feel that they receive only reassurances of safety (which often contra-
dict local experience). Residents may feel 'short-changed' without possessing the
 Science and Hell's kitchen 61

technical competence to push industrial sources further. The consequence is that

residents withdraw from information-seeking activities on the grounds that they are
of little practical value compared to the local knowledges of everyday discourse.
It is important to note, therefore, that what may be seen as local ignorance (or
local resistance) to technical information is an actively constructed social process
rather than mere 'apathy' or 'irrationality' (a point which is further substantiated in
Chapter Five by Michael). Local processes of'making sense' of environmental threat
may owe little to the statements of technical experts - but this is not simply a
consequence of inadequate dissemination. If nothing else, therefore, this chapter has
moved us firmly beyond the notion of a public 'deficit' or 'failure' with regard to
scientific understanding. Instead we have seen much more dynamic processes of
knowledge creation and assessment at work.
Such an analysis of the local treatment of environmental issues has, quite clearly,
taken us a long way from the abstractions of the 'public understanding of science'
as it is conventionally presented. In particular, our location of 'public understanding'
questions within a specific social and cultural context has allowed the relationship
between formalised science and everyday understanding to emerge in a manner which
is altogether more problematic than generally portrayed.
In the final section of this chapter, we will turn briefly to a more critical analysis
of technical information and its perceived relevance to contexts such as those
described here. Once we have 'recontextualised' the public understanding of science,
what place is left for scientific information and advice within everyday life? In dis-
cussing this point we shall, of course, be especially aware that this case-study deals
with one highly loaded social situation and a particular example, rather than a neces-
sarily typical - or even ideal-typical - case. Nevertheless, other chapters in this
collection suggest similar themes and issues.

Discussion
In many ways, the analysis above can be seen as offering a gloomy picture to those
who are keen to proselytise science and to advance its popular understanding. Whilst
from an outsider's perspective, science and technical information are central to the
problems faced by these groups of citizens, very few references to science or scientists
were made during our interviews without specific prompting. Furthermore, ques-
tions about science tended to be met with either puzzlement ('how did we get on
to that subject?') or fear and anxiety as dim classroom memories come to the fore
('I've never been very good at that kind of thing'). Thus, it seems that the closer
one gets to everyday local discussion of technically related issues the more likely it
is for science to 'disappear'. Put differently, the more one becomes aware of the
realities of everyday life among particular communities, the more stark the disparity
 62 ALAN IRWIN, ALISON DALE, AND DENIS SMITH

appears between the agenda and perspective of 'outsiders' (for example concerned
scientists) and those of 'insiders' (i.e. those who actually live with specific worries
and concerns).
In the early stages of our investigation, this phenomenon caused some frustration
since we assumed that the low profile given to science represented a failure in meth-
odology - so that science was somehow slipping through our empirical net. Later
research - especially within semi-structured interviews - revealed, however, that
science (whether as a social institution or as a body of expertise) was indeed seen
as of limited relevance to the problems at hand. This point also suggests the limi-
tation of general social surveys in this area - it seems unlikely that a broad question-
naire could capture the dynamics of community life.
Nevertheless, we would argue that notions of 'science' and technical expertise
play an important role within local discussions of hazard. In particular, the superior
technical expertise possessed by industrial groups permitted them to offer a message
of certainty and reassurance. However, the 'science' presented by industry was seen
by local residents as a very particular form of 'industrial expertise'. Whilst this could
not be directly challenged by the residents, it was generally received with scepticism
and caution. Thus, science does not simply parachute itself into specific social con-
texts - instead, it is constituted, reformulated, and framed according to the context
of its dissemination (a theme which will be further explored in Chapter Three). In
such a situation, public discussion was less about the 'facts' of pollution than the
social and industrial processes which lay behind that pollution. 'Making sense' of
hazard information thus meant fitting 'industrial expertise' into a pattern of pre-
existing knowledges and understandings.
Of course, this point about 'disappearing science' can also be made in the converse
direction. Whilst from the perspective of scientific groups the problem may well be
one of 'disappearance', from the perspective of citizens it is highly artificial to pick
out one aspect of their everyday life and label it 'scientific'. Such categorisations lose
significance within the larger social and cultural context portrayed above.
This analysis has also suggested the very critical reception which is likely to be
given to any efforts at disseminating scientific information within a 'loaded' social
context. Far from adopting a stance of 'all information is equally good', specific
audiences will scrutinise the source very carefully. They will also assess the relevance
and applicability of the information. In this context, of course, it must be remem-
bered that a doctorate in Chemistry may be less useful than a knowledge of who to
contact, how to organise and when to lobby. Where information and instrumentality
(i.e. getting things done) are closely linked, science is not necessarily the most appro-
priate source of understanding and expertise. Similarly, where social powerlessness
is perceived to be high, efforts at information dissemination may achieve low success
rates unless they also offer the possibility of social empowerment.
 Science and Hell's kitchen 63

Therefore, in contrast with much of the rhetoric surrounding the public under-
standing of science, our study suggests that science has no special status for everyday
life, but must instead compete with all other sorts of knowledge and understanding
(especially those categorised here as 'local' knowledges). Very often, the 'test' for
the applicability of these knowledges is the extent to which they assist in the under-
standing and control of one's life. Accordingly, information which is seen as highly
pertinent to certain social groups (for example, reassurances from industry that
everything is under control) may appear irrelevant and diversionary to other groups
and individuals. Going further, it is hardly surprising that science has a negative
connotation for many citizens when those requests for information which are put
forward tend to lead to a sense of dissatisfaction and disadvantage - and hence
reinforce rather than overcome feelings of social powerlessness.
Put bluntly, science as encountered by these citizen groups is far from empowering
or conducive to active citizenship. Instead, it serves to substantiate the social stance
of certain relatively powerful groups - to consolidate the disempowerment of 'local'
people. Whilst scientists may rightly object that this is not necessarily the case, the
current relationship between science and social power cannot be ignored. Indeed, as
this whole chapter has argued, this relationship is central to the public understanding
of science - at least in this context of community pollution concerns.
In making these points about science in the local context, it is always necessary
to stress the point that 'science' is not one homogeneous category, but is itself a
dynamic and divergent body of understandings. Thus, Macdonald in Chapter Seven
of this book discusses the presentation of scientific controversy in one context - a
museum exhibition. Similar issues appear in this chapter as groups such as industry
'frame' science in order to offer a largely reassuring and 'authoritative' account of
environmental threat rather than one which emphasises, for example, the inherent
problems of juxtaposing hazardous industry and housing or the probabilistic nature
of accidental releases. In our study areas, no alternative scientific account of the
situation has been put forward - so that only one technical interpretation has effec-
tively dominated. We have seen above that local residents are not naive to the impli-
cations of this partial hegemony - indeed, they operate with a relatively sophisticated
model of science as representing social interests. Thus, for example, it is a routine
local observation that technical information is presented in order to obscure the
underlying causes of pollution. However, this awareness has not solved the practical
problem of finding alternative sources of expertise in order to hear a greater diversity
of scientific evaluations.
None of the above points should be construed as an argument against the com-
munication of science to the general public or as a rejection of the relevance of
science/technology to everyday life. Instead, our attempt here at 'recontextualisation'
is intended - through the establishment of a more accurate and sociological account
 64 ALAN IRWIN, ALISON DALE, AND DENIS SMITH

of citizens and sources than that usually offered by the 'public understanding of
science' - to serve as a precursor to practical initiatives in this area. Whilst particular
attention will be paid to such practical measures in the conclusions of this book, a
number of brief points can be made here.
First, the need for more than one source of technical information within a given
context has been stressed within this chapter - such alternative sources need to be
accessible, local, and sympathetic to the needs of citizens. Secondly, implicit in this
whole chapter there is the case that - if scientists are sincere in their desire to
communicate more effectively with the rest of society - then this will involve a
willingness to engage with alternative worldviews and 'knowledges' rather than label-
ling them in advance as emotive and ignorant. Certainly, we would argue that 'public
understanding' needs to be viewed as an interactive rather than narrowly didactic
process. Thirdly, as will be argued in the Conclusion, such changes in the 'social
and intellectual humility' of scientists will also involve a reappraisal of their own
institutional structures - a reappraisal which may well have an impact on the kinds
of knowledges which they develop and disseminate as citizen voices begin to be
heard within the science policy process. In that way also, serious commitment to the
enhanced public understanding of science can only develop alongside an equivalent
commitment to the enhanced scientific understanding of the public.
Finally, we need to consider the wider analytical applicability of this case-study
to other contexts of science-public interaction. That is a theme which will be devel-
oped in the chapters that follow.

NOTES

1. The Royal Society, The Public Understanding of Science (London; The Royal Society, 1985)
p. 12.
2. Williams, R., Resources of Hope (London and New York: Verso, 1989) p. 8.
3. 'Bricolage'; 'learning by doing', by imitation and improvisation, usually by oral as opposed
to written communication. Levi-Strauss, C , The Savage Mind (London: Weidenfeld and
Nicholson, 1966).
4. Beck, U., Risk Society; towards a new modernity (London, Newbury Park, New Delhi: Sage,
1992) p. 69. For a fuller discussion of the relationship between this case and the 'risk
society' see Irwin, A. Citizen Science (London: Routledge, 1995).
5. Jupp, A. and Irwin, A., 'Emergency response and the provision of public information under
CIMAH - a community case-study', Disaster Management 1, 4 (1989) 33-8.
 3 Disembodied knowledge? Making sense
of medical science
H E L E N L A M B E R T AND H I L A R Y ROSE

The cloth of meaning may have to be woven out of a myriad scraps and off cuts, but woven
it is, day after day, year after year.1

This chapter addresses the issue of public understandings of science through a study
of the ways patients with a genetic metabolic disorder make sense of the medical
sciences they encounter. This disorder is 'peculiarly scientific' in that although it is
strongly associated with premature death from cardiac arrest, it does not in itself
produce obvious, subjectively discerned symptoms. Indeed, as far as the patient, and
most probably his or her general practitioner, are concerned, even those external
indicators of the disorder that may be present are unlikely to be seen as significant.
Thus prior to the onset of coronary heart disease and/or a heart attack, the disorder
may have no embodied presence in the daily life of the individual; instead it is called
into existence through laboratory indicators, that is by the presence in a blood sample
of raised levels of lipids (blood fats).
As a science concerned with human health, medicine has played a crucial role in
representing science and technology in general to the public and in establishing their
authority and status in contemporary society.2 While medical sociology has debated
the sociological value of studying those whose disorder is medically defined, few
studies have directly explored patients' interpretations of medical science itself. For
social scientists interested in the public understanding of science, patients with such
an abstract 'disembodied' disorder offer a rich point of inquiry. How, to return to
our title, do people make sense of knowledge from medical science which does not
look to, or speak about, the body?

The (disembodied) account from the sciences

The genetically transmitted inability to metabolise lipids - soluble blood fats which
include the widely known cholesterol as well as the rather more obscure triglycer-
ides - and its associated outcomes has been long recognised in medicine, but, because
 66 HELEN LAMBERT AND HILARY ROSE

there has been until relatively recently no effective therapeutic response, there has
been little clinical interest in diagnosing patients. This lack of interest signifies a
tacit medical ethic that it is inappropriate to draw someone's attention to a health
problem unless there can be an effective therapeutic response. (A similar stance
among Cumbrian sheep-farmers, who saw no merit in post-Chernobyl whole body
scans as there is no effective therapy to deal with high caesium levels, is described
in Chapter One of this book.) Today however, a range of drug treatments together
with the careful observance of a dietary regime offer the possibility to the clinician,
with the patient's cooperation, of bringing lipid levels down to something close to,
or within, the normal range. This past absence of diagnosis for a known disorder
was reflected in those we interviewed, in that there was only one brother and sister
with recollections of the pretreatment era, where a doctor parent had understood
the nature of his and his children's condition.
There are several types of familial hyperlipidaemia that have been identified as
'inborn errors of metabolism' in medical research. Only one type, Familial Hypercho-
lesterolaemia, is generally accepted as being due to a single gene defect that is associ-
ated solely with raised levels of blood cholesterol. Its molecular genetics and meta-
bolic characteristics have been explored in a significant body of research for which
the Nobel prize in physiology and medicine was awarded to Goldstein and Brown
in 1985. This inherited condition, which is associated with premature death from
heart attacks, constituted an obvious focus for research into the regulation of choles-
terol metabolism in that its inheritance had already been thoroughly mapped in
particular families, showing that it was likely to result from a dominantly inherited
autosomal single gene defect. Although the common heterozygous form of the dis-
order, which produces blood cholesterol levels of roughly 50% above normal, is
often without any visible symptoms, it may be indicated in adults by the presence
of one or more of the following external signs: xanthomata - lumps of deposited
and calcified cholesterol on the tendons of the back of the hand and the Achilles
tendons; corneal arcus - a white ring round the cornea more normally seen in the eyes
of elderly people; and xanthelasmata - yellow fatty deposits of cholesterol around the
eyes. Only tendon xanthomas are a 'diagnostic hallmark' of Familial Hypercholester-
olaemia (henceforth FHC); the other signs may be found in people who have raised
blood cholesterol levels without having this particular inherited condition.3
In its heterozygous form the incidence of FHC has been estimated at 1 in 500
in the general UK population and it is therefore considered, despite its low public
profile, to be one of the most common genetic disorders. Its incidence, as with other
genetic disorders such as cystic fibrosis and thalassaemia, varies between groups of
different geographical and ethnic origin. As an autosomal disorder, the condition
can be inherited by either men or women, though with rather different implications
for morbidity and mortality in each. Because menstruation seems to confer some
 Disembodied knowledge 67

degree of protection on women, the onset of health difficulties typically occurs for
men in their forties and women in their fifties. For the extremely rare homozygotes
(an estimated 1: 1 000 000) who inherit a defective gene from both parents, the
implications are very grave, with fatal heart attacks usually in the teens or twenties.
Our study did not include any of these patients.
In addition to the intensively researched single gene defect of FHC, there are
various other genetically influenced conditions affecting lipid metabolism. These
range from other related 'familial' disorders such as Familial Combined Hyperlipida-
emia (which has an estimated incidence of 1 in 300 persons in the UK) and Familial
Hypertriglyceridaemia, which are strongly inherited through as yet unknown genetic
factors within particular kin groups, to subtle combinations of unknown genes that
predispose individuals (known as 'polygenic' inheritance) to develop hyperlipidaemia
in interaction with envionmental factors. The implications for morbidity and mor-
tality of these less clearly defined traits can sometimes be as serious as those arising
from heterozygous FHC, and they may be more resistant to research and treatment.
On the other hand, some types of inherited metabolic disorder which fall into the
group known to clinicians and researchers as 'familial dyslipidaemias' may even pro-
tect against coronary heart disease risk, or may have no effect on it but produce
other health problems instead. Naturally, only those abnormalities of lipid metab-
olism which give rise to physical ailments or increase an individual's risk of prema-
ture death are of importance to the clinician.
The account offered here of the scientific understanding of genetically transmitted
lipid disorders is necessarily simplified. Inevitably it gives an impression of a clear-cut
set of conditions that in practice cannot so easily be distinguished. For example,
the description of FHC as a single-gene disorder tends to imply uniformity and
predictability, whereas in fact it is both genetically and clinically heterogeneous, since
there are many different possible mutations of the particular gene which produces
FHC. Moreover, a new dominantly inherited single-gene disorder which mimics
FHC in its effects on blood cholesterol has recently been identified, so that the
latter no longer constitutes a unique case.4 Indeed, classifying an individual patient's
particular type of lipid disorder is often difficult and treatment usually proceeds by
assessing changes in the lipid profile over time in response to dietary and drug
therapy, rather than by reference to any definitive diagnosis.
None the less the hyperlipidaemias, and particularly familial hyperlipidaemias with
FHC as the research centrepiece, are located at the crossroads of a number of import-
ant developments in medical science. Among these are the disciplinary advances in
biochemistry, physiology, nutrition, and pharmacology which have direct relevance
for the clinical management of these disorders. Other developments are technological,
such as the automatic instant screening equipment whose implications, as the
machines enter high-street chemists and health-food shops, are only beginning to
 68 HELEN LAMBERT AND HILARY ROSE

be felt. Yet other important developments are more contextual than clinical. The
most clear-cut is the health policy context in which reducing death from coronary
heart disease (henceforth CHD) in the British population has become a major goal.
Health promotion, with its emphasis on healthy life style and healthy public policy
(see below), reflects and supports cultural shifts which are happening anyway as
people's understandings of how to keep well and how to take care of their families
change under a sea of influences.
The other major development, at present still a considerable distance from actual
clinical practice, is an increasing focus in biomedical research on the genetic origins
of disease. This development implies a future potential to modify genes, and research
into FHC even now raises the possibility of genetic manipulation. Success in cloning
some variants of the faulty gene has been reported, and recent successful work with
a laboratory-bred strain of rabbits that have an analogue of FHC suggests the pos-
sibility of human genetic therapy, presumably on a homozygous patient, at some
time in the future. The significance of these preliminary moves in the context of
this particular hereditary condition, parallel with the search for the amelioration of
a number of other serious genetic disorders, has to be located against the background
of the globally orchestrated, multibillion dollar Human Genome Project, in which
biology enters Big Science.
But while the research emphasis on the genetic basis of disease is intensifying,
gene therapy has no part in clinical medicine today. By contrast, for patients with
any of the familial hyperlipidaemias (henceforth FH), nutritional science and phar-
macology are the important knowledges here and now. Knowledge of nutrition offers
the possibility of modifying the environment within which the genes are expressed
and thus gives to patients themselves some measure of control. However, unlike the
raised cholesterol levels resulting from high saturated fat diets that individuals with-
out a particular genetic susceptibility to hypercholesterolaemia may have, most forms
of FH are not controllable solely through dietary modification. Treatment to reduce
cholesterol levels and thereby reduce the risk of premature CHD usually requires
drugs as well as diet. The effectiveness of the new generation of enzyme-inhibiting
drugs (which block the production of endogenous cholesterol) is sufficiently impress-
ive for lipidologists to make jokes about being able to take one's pills and then go
and eat cream cakes.
Even though there are many debates within nutrition concerning the health value
and implications of different foods, ranging from therapeutic nihilists to committed
healthy-eating advocates, nutrition is generally portrayed in health education material
and in the media as a key (if shifting) element in the promotion of a healthy life
style. For most of us, nutritional science and its scientific definitions of what consti-
tutes healthy eating enter everyday understanding jostling and competing with older
understandings of what is good for you. Fish, which in a half self-mocking folkloric
 Disembodied knowledge 69

story was 'good for the brain' becomes, or at least the oily kind, 'good for the heart'
in the medical-science story. This new understanding becomes available through an
intense deluge of information reported in the medical press and the popular media,
and is directed particularly towards women as the health carers within families.5 The
stories from nutritional science and from epidemiology, while they form a critical
part of an attempt to foster healthy life styles through national and international
strategies of health education and the promotion of healthy food policy, have also
become part of the marketing strategies of the food industry as firms seek to persuade
the consumer that their particular brand of low fat food, polyunsaturated margarine,
or oatbran will protect against premature death from a killer disease. The encourage-
ment through public policy, cultural change, and marketing strategies of a scientifi-
cally defined healthy lifestyle both produces a friendlier knowledge context for people
with this kind of inherited condition and facilitates maintaining the diet by the greater
availability of suitable food products.

'Understanding science' as an active process

The study on which this chapter is based was undertaken as part of a research
programme in the 'Public Understanding of Science'.6 As various chapters in this
book suggest, inherent in the emphasis on the public's understanding of science in
documents such as the British Royal Society's report, is an implicit assumption of
passivity in the process of receiving and assimilating scientific information.7 By con-
trast, one of the strongest themes emerging from interviews with patients in our
study is the active nature of this process when it comes to making sense of, and
coping with, their raised blood lipid levels. We found that most people actively apply
their own general knowledge, clinical observations, and knowledge of personal and
family medical histories to make sense of new medical information, and try to utilise
it effectively and appropriately in the risk reduction strategies that constitute manage-
ment of this 'disembodied' disorder. This is not to say that this group of patients
is always exceptionally compliant with medical advice they receive, but that by and
large they actively seek to get hold of what they understand to be the key elements
from a deluge of often contradictory information from a multiplicity of sources, laden
with different levels of prestige and trustworthiness.
Some two-thirds of the fifty patients we interviewed were drawn from the mem-
bership of a support group set up in 1984 as the Familial Hypercholesterolaemia
Association, which then expanded rapidly to become a charitable organisation con-
cerned with all the inherited hyperlipidaemias, adopting the name the Family Heart
Association. Like the Cumbrian sheep-farmers who took part in the study described
in Chapter One of this volume, the members of the Association were seen as likely,
through personal necessity, to be particularly motivated to 'understand' the relevant
 70 HELEN LAMBERT AND HILARY ROSE

science and this was a primary reason for taking their attitudes and interpretations
as a focus of study. To provide a baseline of 'ordinary' patients against which this
self-selected membership could be compared, a group of similar patients was drawn
from a local outpatient lipid clinic.
For most patients, a primary objective in understanding the medical science relat-
ing to their condition is in order to use it in reducing their health risk within the
context of their everyday lives. As such, patients tend to be quite selective about
the areas of medical science that they wish to acquire knowledge about. Ziman sug-
gests that this kind of relationship to scientific knowledge is instrumental, 8 yet a
dichotomy between the 'intrinsic' and the 'instrumental' does not really capture the
active way that people weave different strands of information into the cloth of every-
day living. Nor does it allow for the fact that, although the initial impetus was risk
reduction and thereby instrumental, for some patients knowing about the science
became intrinsically interesting. Thus, although from outside we can prioritise differ-
ent contributory domains of scientific and medical knowledge according to their
direct relevance for personal management of the condition, this is not how patients
weave the knowledge together. Among both groups of interviewees, what is regarded
as 'relevant', 'useful', or 'necessary' for the management of this condition in terms
of scientific knowledge and information varies greatly between individuals, and so
does their cloth of understanding. All these people could be described as operating
at a 'good enough' level of knowledge for their own purposes; yet what is 'good
enough' varies widely according to the particular perspective of the individual in a
specific situation.

It seems the people whose expertise I'm tapping are mainly in the family, it's delivered
free [laughs], then what I have noticed is the fish pushed more which may well be just
because my brother and sister are being pushed that by their doctors and dieticians or
whatever . . .

I got professional advice from the hospital and we also joined the Familial
Hypercholesterolaemia Association, FHA, who send diet sheets out, and we got diet
advice from wherever we could, we got things that had been given to my mother and
passed on . . .

As suggested by the above excerpts, many of the patients we interviewed employed

informal networks to acquire new information. In particular, where several members
of a family or kin group have been diagnosed as having inherited the condition, a
number of them invariably discuss their treatment, compare their current cholesterol
levels and their understandings of the nature of their condition, and exchange new
information. This active process of learning and disseminating information belies the
model of the isolated individual patient passively understanding or misunderstanding
the information s/he receives from professional sources, and modifies even the more
 Disembodied knowledge 71

accurate image of the patient remaining ignorant through not being given relevant
information in the first place. Thus we would view patients as 'health workers'
actively seeking to understand and make sense of the sciences they see as relevant
(following Stacey (1988) who conceptualises patients not as passive beings cared for
by others, but as health workers actively contributing to the recovery or management
of their health).9 The way in which they do so is clearly related to the particular
contexts of their everyday lives, and this dimension will be emphasised here.

Reading the representations of CHD risk

We have mentioned that several scientific and medical specialisations contribute to

medical scientific knowledge about familial hyperlipidaemia; some of these focus on
different forms of scientific evidence and hold divergent implications for health care.
The fact that current science in this general domain does not offer to the public a
unitary discourse has implications for FH patients' interpretations of biomedical
knowledge and advice. While chemical pathologists working in this field may describe
familial hyperlipidaemias as 'inborn errors of metabolism' and medical geneticists
would discuss them by reference to the hereditary defects of DNA which code for
these metabolic abnormalities, a third representation which is at odds with both of
these is more familiar to lay people. In the health policy field scientific understanding
drawn from epidemiology and nutritional science, rather than medical genetics or
biochemistry, is foregrounded and consequently hyperlipidaemia is represented as
one risk factor for CHD that is caused primarily by poor - but modifiable - dietary
and exercise habits and obesity. Current health-promotion campaigns, as well as the
increasing emphasis on 'healthy eating' and its promotion by commercial interests,
present CHD as an essentially lifestyle-related disease that may be prevented through
individual behavioural change.
For most affected lay people, FH is understood in terms of its effect on physical
health, rather than its metabolic characteristics or genetic determination; it is associ-
ated with CHD and with increased risk of dying prematurely from it. In the health
education context and in people's everyday lives, FH is difficult to represent as
separate from other causes of raised cholesterol and individual susceptibility to CHD.
A multiplicity of sources now provide general information or advice that is relevant
directly or indirectly to the management of high cholesterol levels and the prevention
of CHD.
Debates about CHD prevention, high street cholesterol screening, healthy eating,
and so on are prominent in the media, and new scientific evidence relating to these
issues is widely disseminated in the popular press. Many of those we interviewed
referred to Sunday newspapers and television as sources of information and to books
such as the Eight-week Cholesterol Cure, which advocates self-treatment with massive
 72 HELEN LAMBERT AND HILARY ROSE

doses of oatbran and niacin to lower cholesterol levels. Women's magazines such as
'Good Housekeeping', 'Here's Health', and 'Women's Own' debate the importance
of adopting a low-fat diet, while TV advertisements promote Flora margarine or
Commonsense Oat Bran Flakes as cholesterol-lowering. References to the unhealthi-
ness and dangers of the traditional fried English breakfast are made on the TV soap
Eastenders, while a newspaper in Yorkshire - an area of high mortality from CHD -
reported the results an epidemiological study under the headline, 'Low-fat diets
"raise cancer risk"'. While this mass of often contradictory information is aimed
implicitly at those who do not have a strongly genetic predisposition for raised choles-
terol levels, the information is also seen as potentially relevant by those who have,
as exemplified by the two following quotes from patients:
Q: I wondered if you could tell me about how you went about learning about it?

A: Well anything I can, I mean if I see a heading in a newspaper or anything like that I
don't just say oh they're on about cholesterol again or they're on about diets and
healthy eating, I always read it, and then if there's any publication like this Aim to
beat Cholesterol Cure, I read it, even on packets of things if they're advertising Get
our Healthy Diet or anything like that, I'll get it just to see what, if it's a load of
rubbish or if they've got something you know that, you can never tell until you
actually get it, it might be informative, it might be a load of rubbish, so I do sort of
read anything that I can possibly get hold of on that line.

A: . . . it's instinctive that you will veer towards somebody who's saying oh I've got this
new sort of diet plan, or there's a new book on the market written by some crazy
American who thinks he knows it all, so you will buy it and you will read it, even at
the end of the day if you then scoff at what he's said, you will still be drawn to it,
rather like a moth to a flame, if there's anything about sort of lipids, cholesterol, in the
paper you will read it, what your end result will be you don't know, but you can't
avoid it, so I suppose yes you do lean towards not a sceptical view but you might then
feel sceptical afterwards, I don't know.

At the same time, specific and accurate information about hereditary hyperlipidaemia
is hard to obtain. While emphases may vary between health education programmes
which are aimed at lowering CHD morbidity at the level of the whole population
to, for example, advertisements by cereal manufacturers which invoke new social
concerns with healthy living to sell products, all these messages to the general public
promote alterations in personal life style as the key to health and long life. It is not
a matter of general knowledge that high blood cholesterol levels may also be inherited
and can be resistant to alteration by diet and, for people with FH, the currently
predominant popular representation that susceptibility to CHD results from self-
induced risky behaviour contradicts the scientific understanding of their own con-
dition that they acquire from medical specialists.
 Disembodied knowledge 73

This feature is noted explicitly by some patients. A middle-aged man related how:
I have read that it is inherited, or that certain things can be inherited, but there's
certainly far more emphasis on diet and how diet can affect it . . . I've never seen any
sort of explanation as to you know various theories on what you can inherit as regards
to this particular problem, but I've just seen that you can but it seems to mention it
very briefly without going into a great deal of detail, they seem to spend more time
describing you know how diet can affect it, so I think you've certainly got this in your
mind that it's diet, that is the most important thing about it, you know what can affect
it is your diet.

According to the accounts of some patients, doctors too find the discrepancy between
popular representations of reasons for susceptibility to CHD and the condition of
FH contradictory. For instance, another fifty-year old man commented:
And the first doctor I saw was, again quite, not surprised but he was saying Here you
seem to be very fit, in all ways, taking the age; and therefore it was almost a bit of a
surprise that that, you're not obese and yet you've got a high [cholesterol] level.

Thus the media, and the range of public and private medical and paramedical prac-
titioners with whom affected persons come into contact, supply patients with dif-
fering information about, and interpretations of, current scientific evidence.
Given that those we interviewed had particular reason to be interested in
information about cholesterol and the risk of CHD, it is hardly surprising that
they tended to be well aware of current scientific opinion, at least with respect
to certain aspects of the relevant sciences. Once diagnosed, most adults who have
FH seem to regard the medical science and technology that is applied to treat
them as highly beneficial (indeed, life-saving), especially where relatives have died
prematurely from CHD. However, over time they appear to become aware of the
provisional nature of some scientific knowledges, especially with respect to the
areas of therapy with which patients are most familiar. These tend to be
nutritional science - because of its perceived importance for self-initiated therapy,
its immediate relevance for coping with the disorder in daily life, and its wide-
spread dissemination - and the technical details of blood cholesterol measurement,
since lipid tests are an essential and invariant part of their treatment and the
only means of assessing their own 'condition'. Changes in dietary advice over
time were often mentioned; for example the case of olive-oil, which a few years
ago was completely proscribed to those on cholesterol-lowering diets, but which
is now regarded as positively beneficial, was cited as an example of historical
shifts in therapeutic guidelines by a number of people we interviewed. Again,
many patients noted how the 'cut-off points for recommended levels for blood
cholesterol had shifted over the years, or were cited differently by different
 74 HELEN LAMBERT AND HILARY ROSE

doctors. Such understanding of the historically contingent and partial nature of

scientific knowledge in specific instances seems to be developed even though
patients are inclined generally to accept as fact apparently authoritative statements
from the representatives of medical science.

Medical science and embodied knowledge: the meaning of an

asymptomatic condition
The public representation of science is generally mediated through its application or
promised application; in the case of medical science this is through clinical practice.
Most lay people learn about aspects of medical science directly through contact with
medical experts and, because the focus of medical science is human health, have their
own experiences of ill health to contribute to the understanding of medicine and the
clinical encounter. While subjective experience usually enters into people's interpret-
ations of medical conditions, the 'risk status' of the individual with FH, however,
can be ascertained only through the results of laboratory biochemical analysis of
blood samples. Except for those who have already developed symptoms of CHD
(whom we tried to avoid among our interviewees) observational or personal knowl-
edge held by the patient is taken to be irrelevant in the clinical management of FH.
Accordingly, we were interested in how people without the personal experience of
illness render meaningful the abstract and impersonal information about their ievel
of risk' which is produced and imparted by medical science. The concept of 'disem-
bodied' knowledge does not refer only to the question of how people make sense of
the medical science that is held to be crucial to their physical well-being, but which
does not speak directly about, or look to, the body. It also denotes the individual
embodiment of medical knowledge that must occur in the treatment of this kind of
condition - since intervention to reduce blood cholesterol levels consists in action on
the body through ingestion of appropriate forms of food and pharmaceuticals, exer-
cise, and weight control - and which must be achieved by the patient despite a lack
of perceptual, direct indications of health status or of the effects of such action.
Two particular themes in the interview material well demonstrate this process of
negotiation between the 'disembodied' identification and treatment of the disorder,
and patients' necessarily 'embodied' understandings of it: first, people's responses to
the diagnosis of a potentially life-threatening disorder of which (among those who
had not already developed symptoms) they had no subjective awareness; and second,
their understanding and interpretation of the technical information - blood choles-
terol measurement - that is used to diagnose and chart the condition. On the diag-
nosis of FH, one middle-aged man commented that:
It's frightening, it is frightening, you're going along thinking you're okay and not
realising you've got this . . . [and] it's just invisible, it's just invisible . . . it's like . . . like
 Disembodied knowledge 75

tekin an insurance policy or summin. You don't really know if you're gonna use it or
not.

Another said:

. . . you know I mean it's one of those things, you don't feel any different if somebody
says you've got a high cholesterol level, you don't feel any different.

It is, however, precisely this lack of subjective perception that necessitates reliance
on technical assessment through the results of blood tests, which some people find
difficult to accept. Questioning the authority of medical science in this sense may
be related to age. A 17-year-old girl, when trying to characterise the condition, used
the word 'ill' and then went on to correct herself:
Well it's not really that word, cos you don't feel ill with it, you don't get side effects
from it, you don't look ill from it or feel ill from it. It's just that it is there, and if you
don't prevent it or help it it can end up quite serious.

A 13-year-old girl who had inherited FH from her father and had a very high
cholesterol level explained:
I just don't think about it, I try and forget about it, because as far as I'm concerned
I'm not ill.

For many patients, blood cholesterol measurements are the only evidence that they
are at risk and they constitute the only means of knowing whether risk-reducing
strategies are having any effect. They have to accept that the figures which result
from lipid testing of their blood are meaningfully related to their future health status,
although these measurements are peculiarly detached from their personal experience.
The language used by patients to refer to cholesterol measurements is significant in
this respect. A wide range of terms were employed to describe these biochemical
measurements, including 'level', 'number', 'figure', 'count', and 'reading'. The terms
used to compare one measurement with another also varied, some describing it as
being 'lowered' or 'raised', others as 'up' or 'down', and still others as 'high' or
'low'. The terminology used in talking about cholesterol test results is related to
individual perceptions of their meaning, and members of the same kin group tend
to adopt a common language. The more fully the person participates in the biomed-
ical model of the disorder and the meaning of test results, the more likely they are
to employ the technical terms of biomedical discourse. The use of other terms of
reference may indicate a different view of the relationship between test results and
the person's present and future health status.
Accepting the significance of a raised blood cholesterol measurement also implies
some understanding of the statistical link between blood cholesterol level and risk
of CHD in the overall population. Yet some patients come to internalise, as it were,
cholesterol readings so that they are interpreted as direct statements about the
 76 HELEN LAMBERT AND HILARY ROSE

individual's current physical condition rather than as indications of relative risk.

Although minor variations in cholesterol measurements are likely to be the result of
laboratory-produced inaccuracies and are unlikely to mean anything about the per-
son's immediate health, these figures are sometimes regarded as absolute criteria of
well-being. One 17-year-old questioned precisely this tendency among patients; his
following, quite lengthy, statement attempts to express his awareness of the distinc-
tion between statistical risk and individual prognosis, and also comments upon the
reliance on numerical measurements in the control of cholesterol:

I can understand this sastistic [sic] about people dyin' every 3 minutes from heart
attacks. Someone in my family, my gran, one of my uncles died of a heart attack . . .
But even still . . . nothing was ever pointed out to me, or to my mum in that fact, that
it was actually, this problem of cholesterol. No one's ever pointed out to me, and
proved to me, that it is cholesterol levels which caused that . . . They can say it
increases your chance, of a heart attack, but no one can say, er, because you don't go
on a special diet, and you don't take these tablets, you will have a heart attack next x
years, because that would be untrue. . . . the diet that I eat now, is more balanced away
from cholesterol than just about anybody I know . . . but because . . . since a young kid
I've been . . . brought up that this count's important, you know I get stereotyped into
thinkin that this count is the be-all and end-all. So what you do is you actually in fact,
keep this count down. Um, so it's not really the cholesterol I'm fightin against, it's the
count. I think that's the same for a lot of people . Cos people don't understand about
the cholesterol all they understand is these numbers. And they go for the numbers.

Adults also express doubts about the meaning of the figures with which they
are presented, explicitly acknowledging that some knowledge of the overall range is
necessary since individual cholesterol measurements can be interpreted only in rela-
tive terms. For example a middle-aged man under specialist treatment for his raised
cholesterol level described how, years previously, he had started watching his diet
after having had a cholesterol test at his doctor's but had not known what his level
should have been:

I didn't really know about the limits and if the doctor had said to me it's perfectly
normal be ween four and eight, and yours is only just over the first time, and then
when it went down to five, if he said well you know that's fine because of, but they
don't, they just quote figures, I mean they could say to me you know you've got 50 in
your blood and it wouldn't mean anything to me, I might think that's okay, I don't
know what the normal limit is, apart from eight was obviously a little bit higher than it
should be, but nobody's said what it should be.

None the less, this man had turned to library books and other sources of information
and, despite the statement quoted here, went on to show that he had since acquired
a thorough understanding of the nature and extent of health risk in relation to choles-
terol level, other contributory factors, and the development of CHD.
 Disembodied knowledge 77

Implicit knowledge
The last quotation exemplifies a response which we found to be very common among
the patients we interviewed; people often claimed not to know about medical science,
but their scientific understanding would subsequently become clear through con-
trastive statements about the attitudes or comments of other lay people. Of course,
knowledge claims are related to the audience being addressed; to the interviewer's
questions, patients sometimes professed ignorance or disclaimed knowledge (see the
discussion of'ignorance' by Michael in Chapter Five). However, the same individuals
often displayed a relatively detailed knowledge and understanding about their con-
dition in the course of talking about, for example, communication with other lay
people (relatives, friends) or their views about awareness of cholesterol as a risk
factor for CHD among the general public. Interviewees were asked routinely how
they would describe or explain the condition to other people and this proved to be
a productive way of eliciting people's implicit knowledge. For example:
Well I've had to do on quite a few occasions trying to explain exactly why I was doing
it, they tend to know about cholesterol because that's a word that's used quite a lot
nowadays, but nobody has heard of triglyceride, they're not aware of that word, they
don't know what it means . . .

Here the interviewee's specialist knowledge about different types of lipids emerges
through contrast with the level of knowledge among unaffected lay persons. Knowl-
edge about nutritional science was similarly revealed in this manner; the woman
in her sixties speaking below demonstrates her more detailed understanding of the
differences between various forms of fats than that held by her friends and her
knowledge that not all margarine is unsaturated:
I start by saying no animal fat which is the easiest thing . . . you tend to give up when
it comes to explaining the difference between poly- and mono-unsaturates and they
tend to say This will be alright for you, it's got margarine in, [I ask] Is it sunflower
margarine or soya, [they say] Oh no it's Stork, and you say Well it's not good enough,
[they say] Well it's supposed to be better for you than butter . . .

In describing how she simplifies her explanation of the nature of the condition
and the dietary restrictions it entails when talking to unaffected people, a woman
librarian in her thirties similarly reveals her own, more detailed understanding:
In simple terms I say having to keep off animal fats, which is a much simpler thing for
people to grasp, cholesterol still has a sort of medical ring to it, but saying keep low on
animal fat . . .

In the following excerpts two women in their mid sixties and late thirties respect-
ively indicate their own knowledge of the science, but have different views of the
level of popular knowledge than the librarian:
 78 HELEN LAMBERT AND HILARY ROSE

Well usually if you say FH it doesn't mean anything, if you say familial
hyperlipidaemia they look so shattered, with the length of it, I just say it is a blood
condition that you know is passed on to different people . . . I just say that it is
something that is passed which affects your cholesterol levels, well everybody knows
about cholesterol now don't they . . .

It's, I think it all really depends on who you're talking to, as to how they're going to
understand what you're trying to say, I mean some people obviously if I'm too
technical it would go over their heads and they wouldn't understand, they can only
sympathise with you. But mainly I tend to tell them that I have a blood disorder,
because a lot of people don't know the word lipid, and they don't understand what
that is, and it means that I manufacture too much cholesterol and I have to keep this
under control by drugs and diet . . .

As suggested in the last excerpt, most lay people are not versed in the scientific
language employed to discuss lipid disorders and patients may therefore have diffi-
culty in discussing their condition except with others who are already familiar with
it. While there are some differences in views about what constitutes 'common knowl-
edge' among the interviewees, these quotes also illustrate in various ways the prob-
lems that patients experience in attempting to describe a condition that can accurately
be portrayed only in technical terms. Although only a few examples are given here,
the tacit nature of these people's knowledge was a characteristic feature of all the
interviews.10 Interviewees tended to talk about, and thereby reveal, their own knowl-
edge primarily by contrast with the understandings of others.
Related to the implicit character of patients' knowledge is the fact that 'science'
itself was very rarely mentioned at all. The knowledge that patients hold about their
condition appeared to be construed as different from medical science itself, regardless
of how accurate a representation of scientific knowledge their own understanding
was. Science itself disappears in conversations with ordinary individuals about their
own lives and circumstances; it has already been shown that specific medical knowl-
edge is often implicit and perhaps what lay people themselves know, they do not
regard as scientific. 'Science' appears to be regarded as the knowledge held by those
who work in scientific fields; thus, by definition, what lay people - and especially
the general public - know cannot be science.

Heredity and CHD: understandings of genetic inheritance

The idea that blood cholesterol levels could be raised due to hereditary factors was
new to most of the people with FH who were interviewed. This is not to suggest
that patients did not recognise a hereditary aspect to CHD at all. Despite the lack
of emphasis on inheritance in health education about this disease, most lay people
recognise CHD to be a form of ill health and cause of death that may 'run in
 Disembodied knowledge 79

families'.11 However, even among those who claimed to be aware that CHD in general
could be inherited, the hereditary character of FH tended to become significant only
retrospectively, after the individual's own diagnosis of high cholesterol or of CHD.
Commonly, an event such as a heart attack in a close relative first alerted those we
interviewed to the possibility of a problem, although even this rarely led individuals
to investigate their own risk status.
Although the fact that high cholesterol levels themselves may be hereditary had
been novel to all the people we interviewed at the time of their diagnosis, and
appeared to contradict popular assumptions about the lifestyle-related causes of
CHD, most of them were able to make sense of this information by placing it within
the context of their own knowledge about inheritance. These people appear to view
matters of inheritance as entailing complex interactions of genetic, psychobiological,
and environmental aspects. Their understanding is an active one shaped by compari-
son with other known inherited and acquired conditions, and by personal experience
of inheritance patterns and susceptibility to CHD among kin. Their comments about
the implications of this hereditary disorder integrate it effectively into a view of
human life that acknowledges individual variation, the multifactorial causation of ill
health, and the normality of human imperfection. For instance, asked whether it
had been a surprise to find out that his cholesterol level was not raised solely because
of his diet, a middle-aged policeman said;
I don't think you can exactly describe it as a surprise, but it's something that you
didn't give a great deal of thought to. But I mean I accepted it, I didn't think oh I
don't believe that, I accepted it, amongst the many things you can inherit like the
colour of your hair and your eyes and your temperament, but I mean to me you can
inherit your temperament, you know and all things like that, not only your looks, so
I'm not too surprised at it . . . just like as I say you can inherit certain physical
characteristics, I think you can also inherit mental and obviously you can inherit bodily
function ways, can't you?

Asked whether she saw having a high cholesterol level for hereditary reasons as
different somehow from its being due to diet, a secretary in her late fifties replied;

I don't know on the hereditary side of it, because of my hereditary [sic] I've got red
hair, that's just one of those things, I mean there's nothing I can do about it, that's the
way I was born . . . I don't feel the victim of circumstances particularly, I mean a lot
of the things that I've inherited have been good things presumably.

A young woman with F H engaged to be married said that she and her fiance had
considered the implications of having children:

Well we did think about that but, I mean if it can be helped it's all right. I mean it's
not like um . . . the other things that can be hereditary . . . that you have to have tests
for, like Down's syndrome or the other things like that . . . The only other thing that
runs, in my family is twins. So not really because, it's an everyday thing . . . if you
 80 HELEN LAMBERT AND HILARY ROSE

have a child an the child's got high cholesterol, they'll eat a healthy diet . . . probably
the only age you'll learn to eat the right foods an that, you know . . . It'd be like that.

Discussing how she described the condition to her 8-year-old son who has
inherited FH from his father, a woman said:
There seem to be more and more of these things, I suppose as genetic research goes on
. . . I was explaining it to [her son] in these terms, it was almost the norm to have that
sort of defect . . . because the perfect genetic set probably doesn't exist.

Scientific information about the genetic transmission of the condition is also, of

course, understood in terms of the health consequences of the condition rather than
in abstract terms. Thus, several people stated that boys were more likely to inherit
FH than girls and quoted their doctors as the source of this view. Rather than
construe this simply as a failure to understand the nature of autosomal inheritance,
it seems likely (given other interview evidence) that, from the patient's viewpoint,
the gene defect which is inherited is inseparable from its clinical consequences. Cer-
tainly with respect to both life expectancy and relative risk, females with FH are
less susceptible than males at least until after the menopause. Clinicians are therefore
likely to emphasise the importance of diagnosis and treatment in male rather than
in female children.

Conclusion: situated knowledges

People clearly develop situated understandings of medical science through intensive
experience of a specific domain (in this case, familial hyperlipidaemia). While these
understandings may differ in significant respects from the received scientific/medical
orthodoxy, such situated understanding adds meaning to formal knowledge by locat-
ing it within the individual's personal and social context. It is, moreover, continu-
ously modified over time as new technical or scientific information is acquired and
as personal and family health-related circumstances change.12 This interpretive
relationship to scientific knowledge is probably more valuable to the individual
patient, and has closer parallels with scientific knowledge in its provisional contingent
quality, than would a passive acceptance of medical science as univocal and absolutely
authoritative.
The need to adjust to the disorder in a manner that is convenient and manageable
in everyday life is, of course, the ultimate priority for those diagnosed as having
FH. Thus the patients we interviewed accept the diagnosis they are given and follow
medical advice, but most of them do so only to the extent that it can be accommo-
dated relatively easily in their daily lives. People who had recently been diagnosed
tended to express considerable anxiety about having FH, but those who had learned
 Disembodied knowledge 81

of the condition years previously no longer regarded it as threatening. Rather, as we

have shown, it was seen as an aspect of their physical make-up which had required
some adjustments in their lives but which, in the long term, they had found them-
selves able to accommodate. The 'scientific fact' of above-average personal risk is
consciously weighed against its implications for a restrictive existence, and a compro-
mise between risk-reducing action (through dietary control and so forth) and main-
taining an enjoyable social life (in the broadest sense) is usually reached. People are
not ignorant of, nor do they fail to understand, the technical assessment of their
susceptibility; rather, they understand this and evaluate its implications for action
with regard to the quality of their whole lives.
Similarly, among those interviewed we observed no clear correlation between edu-
cational level and adherence to medical advice. There appears to be no simple, causal
relationship between the literal 'understanding' of scientific information, and the
inclination or ability to act on it. Those who were most highly educated or at ease
with scientific or statistical concepts were often most sceptical of medical inter-
ventions. They tended to question the assertions of medical science or relativise their
personal risk against potential environmental health risks such as air pollution and
traffic accidents, thereby reducing its overall significance.
Just as patients' personal understandings may be characterised as forms of knowl-
edge that are shaped by, and situated in relation to, those aspects of their lives which
are most affected by having a particular medically defined condition, so the various
forms of scientific understanding relevant to the condition can also be seen as forms
of situated knowledge. Rather than assuming science to be an objective, universal,
and decontextualised knowledge that is refracted and particularised by lay people in
their attempts to understand it, we have attempted to show here that scientific knowl-
edge too is contested, provisional, and situated, with different understandings fore-
grounded according to the particular context in which it is invoked. The view of
science's relation to the public as comprising decontextualised knowledge about
which the public is deficiently cognisant13 is challenged by the interpretive approach
employed by this particular section of the public.
Yet the relationship between personal, context-dependent knowledges, and auth-
oritative or institutional forms of scientific knowledge, is complex; the character
of the former may result in enhanced trust in the latter or, on the other hand,
in increased scepticism. In the case of medical science, such trust or scepticism
finds expression in the extent and nature of compliance with medical advice. In
turn, variations in the degree to which patients choose to comply with such
advice provide some indication of how this particular public negotiates relations
with a rather esoteric set of knowledges. It gives some encouragement to the
view that the public - at least where they have reason to believe that knowledge
 82 HELEN LAMBERT AND HILARY ROSE

can make a difference14 and where there are multiple sources of information and
advice some of which are seen as reliable - can be rather skilled at making sense
of science.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

We wish to thank the Economic and Social Research Council for funding the research on which this
paper is based (grant number A418254002). The editors also deserve thanks for their encouragement
and perseverance. Professor David Galton kindly checked the accuracy of the scientific content. We are
grateful to the Family Heart Association and to Dr Andrew Grant for their assistance and co-operation
and, especially, to the patients and families who volunteered their time and their insights with great
generosity.

NOTES

1. Worpole, K. 'Total culture', Marxism Today (September 1990) 44-5, on 44.

2. Cornwall, J., Hard-Earned Lives: accounts of health and illness from east London (London, New
York: Tavistock, 1984) p. 121.
3. Durrington, P. N. and Miller J. P., 'Clinical Aspects of Hyperlipidaemia', British Journal of
Hospital Medicine (July 1984): 28-34, o n 29-
4. Tybjaerg-Hansen, A., Gallagher, J., Vincent, J., Houlston, R., Talmud, P., Dunning, A. M.,
Seed, M., Hamsten, A., Humphries, S. E., and Myant, N. B., 'Familial defective
apolipoprotein B-100: detection in the United Kingdom and Scandinavia, and clinical
characteristics often cases', Atherosclerosis 80, 3 (1990) 235-42.
5. cf. Graham, H., Women, Health and the Family (Brighton: Wheatsheaf, 1984).
6. Our research was conducted between October 1988 and October 1990 in parts of England,
under the auspices of the Economic and Social Research Council's Science Policy Support
Group. For accounts of the overall research programme see Birke, L., 'Selling science to the
public', New Scientist (18 August 1990) 40-4; and Ziman, J., Silverstone, R., and Wynne B.,
'Special Report: Public Attitudes', Science, Technology & Human Values 16, (1991) 99-121.
7. Royal Society, The Public Understanding of Science (London: The Royal Society, 1985).
8. Ziman, J., An Introduction to Science Studies (Cambridge University Press, 1984) pp. 184-5.
9. Stacey, M., The Sociology of Health and Healing (London: Unwin Hyman, 1988) pp. 5-7,
194-205.
10. Cf. Ravetz, J. R., Scientific Knowledge and its Social Problems (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1971)
p. 239, who contrasts scientific knowledge as explicit and public, with personal understanding
as private and largely tacit.
11. Davison, C , Frankel, S. and Davey-Smith, G., 'Inheriting heart trouble: the relevance of
common-sense ideas to preventive measures', Health Education Research 4, 3 (1989) 329-40.
12. Ravetz (Scientific Knowledge and its Social Problems, 1971) suggests that:
Each person's understanding of a piece of scientific knowledge, or even a fact, will be
peculiar to himself, depending on his own history of involvement with the materials . . . One
can 'know' a classic piece of scientific knowledge from an early age, but one's understanding
of it can, and should, develop as one matures, (pp. 239-40)
13. Bodmer, W., The Public Understanding of Science (The seventeenth Bernal Lecture) (London:
Birkbeck College, 1986); Royal Society, The Public Understanding of Science (1985).
 Disembodied knowledge 83

14. Anna Wynne's account of multiple sclerosis - where there are distressing symptoms but little
science, rather like a mirror image of FH - makes some interesting observations about faith.
Only the scientist with MS continues to have faith in the potential of science to cure MS;
the others are more equivocal, not because of their lack of faith in the power of science but
because they think it may fail in the specific case of MS. Wynne, A., 'Accounting for
accounts of Multiple Sclerosis', Knowledge and Reflexivity: new frontiers in the sociology of
knowledge, edited by S. Woolgar (London: Sage, 1988) pp. 101-22, on pp. 117-18.
 4 Now you see it, now you don't:
mediating science and managing
uncertainty in reproductive medicine
FRANCES PRICE

Visual imagery is often presented as capturing 'literal reality', especially in a climate

of increasing surveillance. The quest to better 'the view' has spurred the development
of technologies that enhance visibility and provide useful images. Telescopes, micro-
scopes, X-rays, and then ultrasound and other scanning devices have opened up
wholly new areas of observation. They have also fostered new alliances, evaluation
criteria and agendas - new routes to authority and of entry into the politics of
representational practices. Surveillance, for instance, particularly since Foucault
(1979), has become a way of asserting the political character of visualisation. How-
ever, this analysis may deflect attention away from imaging practices premised on a
'mutuality of knowing', and on 'care' as well as 'control' (Lyon 1993). Moreover,
central issues of power and accountability also arise when there is a shift of domain,
as the image is transferred beyond the legitimate realm of the 'expert'.
Images invite action: the use of technologies of visual depiction are now central
to medical interventions. In general, diagnostic images are intended, above all, for
expert scrutiny: elaborate conventions exist to shield such images from public display.
Captured on plate, film, or tape, these images are scanned for signs of pathology
and become substitutes, surrogates for the subject under clinical observation: as auth-
orised depictions, they are also readily available for evaluation, in group discussion
in the clinic, or in a court of law in a malpractice suit. Patients can be elsewhere:
their physical presence is no longer required. The images become constituted as
technical data, and such technical data can come to be seen as determining the
diagnosis.
Yet, in reproductive medicine, women as patients are invited to view images of
embryos and fetuses. The production of these images, which women view 'with their
own eyes', is celebrated by clinicians as both an aid to communication and as encour-
 Now you see it, now you don't 85

aging their compliance. To this end, such images have come to be routinely produced
in antenatal and infertility clinics.
Thus clinicians in reproductive medicine use imaging technology not only to
enhance their diagnostic powers, but also to structure discussions with their patients.
Clinicians 'help' women as patients to see, to make sense of the images before their
eyes - they are accustomed to being authoritative as to what and when information
is communicated, as part of the professional management of uncertainty. They create
a frame, an enclosure for a narrative within medical discourse. Also, various insti-
tutional 'devices' are in place in the professional practice of medicine which enable
clinicians to legitimately exert a focusing effect on behalf of their patients. In effect,
they 'manage' the production of the image, its interpretation, and any information
conveyed to the patient. But this institutionalised authority to set the agenda and
to safeguard 'clinical autonomy' can compromise wider sociopolitical concerns,
including the public understanding of science. In effect, medical practice can vest
tentative scientific projections with robust authority.
Images produced for view by, and discussion with, pregnant women, and with
those anticipating pregnancy, serve to shape knowledge and communication of
information about the pregnancy, or about the prospect of a pregnancy, in ways
that may ultimately prove misleading. The clinician's 'framing' may obscure the
uncertainty of the science underlying medical practice. Visual displays - the
practice of 'rendering visible' - can appear problematic in reproductive medicine
in relation to the principle of informed consent, during both pregnancy and the
quest for pregnancy.
The diagnostic 'rendering practices' - in other words, the institutional authority
structures and the claims to autonomy of medical professionals - mediate the scien-
tific practices involved. Ulrich Beck has commented on the successful professionalis-
ation of medicine, such that 'medicine as a professional power has secured and
expanded for itself a fundamental advantage against political and public attempts at
consultation and intervention. In its field of practice, clinical diagnosis, and therapy,
it not only controls the innovative power of science, but is at the same time its own
parliament and its own government in matters of "medical progress"' (Beck 1992).
The approach and scope of medical decision-making becomes of even greater concern
as entirely new situations are created as reproductive and genetic technologies
develop, opening up new opportunities for intervention. This has particular political
repercussions for women because of the complexity of their incorporation into the
polity as the 'different' sex, as 'women', as those with the capacity of being 'mothers',
in contrast to men the 'individuals', the 'citizens' of political theory (Pateman 1992).
The focus of this chapter is the production and interpretation of images of
embryos and fetuses in the context of communication about them. I draw on recent
 86 FRANCES PRICE

fieldwork: a project that was part of the National Study of Triplets and Higher Order
Births (Price 1989, Botting et al. 1990, Price 1992)1 and a supplementary project to
the National Study. Both projects involved interviews with clinicians and scientists
and with women and men attending infertility clinics (Price 1993).2

Rendering visible

In the Western world, vision has been privileged over other senses: the practice of
image making as a route to scientific discovery has a long history (Arber 1954; Rorty
1979; Keller and Crontkowski 1983; Lynch and Woolgar 1990). 'Seeing' in the sci-
ences is a distinct activity. Consensual ways of 'seeing' and 'knowing' are maintained
socially through shared paradigms.
Scientific communication typically involves the use of visual displays to simplify
and schematise objects of studies: such 'rendering' practices are necessary for consti-
tuting manageable data (Lynch 1990).3 By producing technical data from visual dis-
plays, scientists can construct and compare models of what can be seen. To achieve
this, they compare images with images, and translate information acquired from other
sources into the images obtained by a new device (Pasveer 1990).4 This all takes time.
When observations are novel, scientists have to decide what should be regarded as
important and what as artifact (Lynch 1985).5 It is this very indeterminacy of the
data which provides room for controversy in scientific practice.
The medical historian Stanley Reiser has traced the development of the tendency
within the medical profession to regard illness in terms of 'discrete, picturable
lesions, as a disturbance of one part of the body more than of the person himself.
He also charted the growth of the idea that 'the most significant advances in diagnosis
would come from new ways of visualising pathology' (Reiser 1978: 55). When the
doctor could see and make sense of what was within the body, it became less urgent
to listen and make sense of what the patient reported. The voice of the patient
became muffled, and the task of medicine became not the elucidation of what the
patient said but what the doctor saw in the depths of the body (Armstrong 1984:
738).
Reiser links the twentieth-century quest for machine-produced evidence in medi-
cine to a faith in science and technology, and 'a belief that a scientific spirit entered
clinical practice through technology' (Reiser 1978: 161). Once they came to be largely
reliant on state-of-the-art technology to diagnose and monitor illnesses, doctors could
align themselves (by association) with a model of science incorporated in contempor-
ary technical expertise, in which science is seen as generating empirical truths
through rigorous methods. In so far as images can be 'objectified' and used diagnos-
tically, the clinician's authority over the patient, and also other professionals, is bols-
 Now you see it, now you don't 87

tered: the intended outcome is predictability and control. The focus is the image
itself.
Clinicians constantly use images as visual clues to devise appropriate ways of
treating their patients - so much so that a leading American medical journal recently
asked its readers to send interesting photographs of their patients' ailments. 'As
doctors we encounter an enormous variety of images from day to day', wrote the
editor-in-chief of The New England Journal ofMedicine, Jerome Kassirer, introducing
a new feature, 'Images in Clinical Medicine' (Kassirer 1992). He welcomed the sub-
mission of 'typical images', in colour or black and white, of skin lesions, funduscopic
views, blood smears, ultrasonic scans and more. Yet he acknowledged that 'an image
considered typical by one expert may seem atypical to another'. Such conflict would
stem in part from 'differences in judgment, training and experience'; disagreements
will be adjudicated by peer review. This will help to ensure, he argues, that the
images selected are 'prototypes', to be usefully 'anchored' in the readers' memory as
'diagnostically important objects'.
Such a focus, however, risks losing sight of not only the practice that has created
it, but that this practice takes place within a particular social organisation of technical
skills. Image-making in medicine is a collaborative venture with others whose expert-
ise comes from training in scientific and paramedical occupations including 'third
party' professionals with appropriate skills. Yet the status of all these collaborators
is subordinate to that of the clinician (Daly and Willis 1989). In the UK, the occu-
pational ideology of medicine legitimates a hierarchy of expertise.
Thus in contemporary practice, the operator of the device produces images -
Michael Lynch's 'docile object' or 'material template' - which can then be worked
on by 'experts' (Lynch 1985). As sources of information, prediction and planning,
the displays from imaging devices thus become workplaces and sites of discovery,
contention, and negotiation - the familiar 'rendering practices' of scientific inquiry.
But the context of application is clinical practice: in important respects, this is not
science. Moreover, the technical division of labour between the execution of the
imaging task and clinical practice, combined with authority and status distinctions,
ensures overall medical dominance (Willis 1983). Effectively there is a hierarchy of
credibility which is of crucial significance in the management of uncertainty.
Judgements about whether to proceed with a treatment or diagnostic examination,
are, however, the responsibility of the clinician, as are decisions about how to account
to patients about the attendant degree of uncertainty and risk (O'Brien 1986).6 Doc-
tors decide what risks their patients can bear. In English law, patients must be told
of the substantial risks involved in medical treatment (Sidaway v Gov. of Bethlem
Royal Hospital, 1986). But how much a clinician should disclose is left as a matter
of clinical judgement. Clinicians are assumed to employ their medical expertise as
the agents of their patients in the attempt to maximise the benefits of treatment.
 FRANCES PRICE

They are presumed to be aware of the range of patients' preferences - one such
preference being that of minimising risk. But risk is a culturally conditioned idea,
shaped by social pressures and notions of accountability (Douglas 1992). Clinicians'
priorities may not be those of their patients.
The presumption that clinicians can know what risks their patients can bear takes
on a heightened sensitivity in relation to infertile women and men who, as Naomi
Pfeffer and others have emphasised, are commonly represented as 'desperate' and
willing to go to any lengths to have a baby (Pfeffer 1987, Pfeffer and Quick 1988).
'The patient' is, in most cases, a couple and both clinician and 'the patient' perceive
pregnancy to be the goal. This focus on pregnancy at all costs is exacerbated by the
contemporary customer service model of health care provision. Also the provision of
infertility treatment is largely in the private sector of medicine, and clinics compete
in the marketplace for customers on the basis of their published pregnancy rate.

Looking at embryos
The quest for diagnostically useful images in reproductive medicine has encouraged
novel ways of viewing many stages of human development including ovulation. Since
the laparoscopic collection of oocytes for in vitro fertilisation (IVF) and subsequent
embryo transfer, the very earliest stages are open to scrutiny (Betteridge 1981,
Westmore 1984). Several pioneering partnerships of clinician and scientist developed
the IVF technique (Edwards et al. 1980, Yoxen 1988). Subsequently IVF teams have
been set up around the world, forging close working relationships between laboratory
and clinic which then became sites of collective action.
The practice of IVF is critically influenced by the uncertain scientific status of
'quality' assessments based on the visual appearance of embryos. The major factor
affecting the pregnancy rate in the IVF procedure is widely held to be embryo
'quality'. But the factors implicated in embryo implantation in the uterus are still
speculative (Seppala 1991; Turner et al. 1994).7 Current assessments rest on examin-
ing magnified images of embryos and 'grading' them according to 'visual estimates
of fragmentation and the evenness of blastomeres', according to the embryologists
Jennifer Hartshorne and the IVF pioneer Robert Edwards, both working at Bourn
Hall at the time of writing. Embryos with misshapen or damaged cells are suspected
of being less likely to implant in a woman's uterus, but it is acknowledged that
appearance has little predictive value: most forms of embryonic morphology during
early cell division have scant relationship to subsequent developmental capacity.
Researchers in various laboratories in Britain and abroad are attempting to find
biochemical indicators of 'embryo quality', but as yet no reliable marker has been
discovered (Leese 1981, 1989; Leese et al. 1990; Martin et al. 1990; Turner et al.
1994). So the visual assessment of embryo morphology continues, although the
 Now you see it, now you don't 89

results of placing different 'grades' of embryos in the uterus turn out not to be
greatly different 'unless substantial fragmentation has occurred' (Hartshorne and
Edwards 1991).
This grading process rests on years of 'looking at embryos': the embryologist's
practice appears more as an art than a science. The embryologist Karen Dawson
explained (in a BBC Horizon television programme) the grading system she used:
OK, so here are three embryos that we're going to transfer today. The one at the top is
a four-cell embryo, one of the cells has started to fragment and it would be a grade 2.5
on our grading system. The one in the middle is very nice. There are 4 cells, they're all
still intact, and that would be a 1.5 on our grading system, and the bottom embryo looks
as though there was a fifth cell which has started to fragment; again, it's quite a nice
embryo although the cell fragmentation does take it down to a grade 2. All you can use
is your experience and your knowledge at looking at embryos and sometimes you can't
really explain to somebody why you particularly pick one embryo in preference to
another; it's just a feel that you get over the years of looking at embryos. 8

Ultimately, the criteria for embryo selection are arbitrary unless the embryo is vir-
tually disintegrating. No one can be sure that a viable embryo has been chosen. So
IVF teams routinely transfer more than one to a woman's uterus in an attempt to
achieve a 'good-enough' pregnancy rate. When three or more eggs or embryos are
available for transfer, three are generally transferred; this has come to be regarded
as standard practice.9 But this practice is controversial because of the known risk of
multiple pregnancy.10 Neonatal paediatricians in particular have deplored the inci-
dence, risk and consequences of multiple births and their effects on neonatal services
(Levene 1986, 1991; Anderson 1987; Peters et al. 1991; Scott-Jupp et al. 1991).11
In the face of this uncertainty embryologists have advanced stories that have
appealed to clinicians as practitioners. One was the idea that there is a synergistic
effect when more than one embryo is transferred - which Edwards, employing a
surely misplaced 'caring' analogy, called embryo 'helping'; and Edwards has long
since retracted this conjecture (Edwards 1985). Such comfortable explanations, still
reiterated from time to time, enabled a consensus to be reached about what 'good-
enough' practice should be in the circumstances.
What started as a pragmatic decision to agree a number then becomes difficult
to shift. In this way, state-of-the-art embryology applied in the clinic becomes locked
up in medical practice. Transferring three embryos has become the norm (World
Collaborative Report 1993), despite the fact that several embryologists have published
data that suggest that transferring only two would reduce the risk of a multiple
pregnancy without lowering the pregnancy rate (Bennett et al. 1989; Dawson et al.
1991; Waterstone et al. 1991; Staessen et al. 1993).
The staff of one IVF clinic set up a randomised clinical trial in the hopes of
producing a scientifically rigorous demonstration that would confirm their belief that
 90 FRANCES PRICE

the pregnancy rate following the transfer of two embryos was as good as after the
transfer of three. But for this very reason the clinic found it difficult to recruit
women for the trial who were prepared to accept the transfer of three embryos:
We're actually finding it difficult to find people to go on our trial because so many of
them want two [that is, they do not want three]. Urn, the problem is, you see, we do
tend to say to them that we feel that two gives as good a result as three. Because if
you want to put people onto a trial you've almost got to say that, otherwise you, if
they thought they'd get a lesser chance, they'd go for three. And you'd never get
anyone on the two side. So it's quite hard to pitch your counselling right, I find.

Perceptions of acceptable risk

In the IVF procedure, unusually in medical practice as a whole, clinicians generally
favour allowing patients 'to see with their own eyes' what is going on. Images of
embryos, graded behind the scenes by the embryologist, are typically presented to
the woman, with their grading, as part of the procedure: 'These are the embryos
we're going to transfer today.' Moreover, a woman may find the sight of her embryos
compelling:
Three grade i four-cell embryos were transferred to my womb. I lay on the table
looking at the magnified embryos on the television screen above my head. The
four-cells in each of the embryos were clearly visible, and it suddenly struck me that I
was looking at three potential human beings, a combination of [my partner] and myself,
and they seemed very beautiful. Tears started rolling down my cheeks and the nurse
gave me a tissue and rested a reassuring hand on my shoulder. 12

This woman vividly anticipates what each embryo might become. Yet she is 'see-
ing' the embryos as 'out there' as detached from her, as part of the plan for preg-
nancy. She views them, magnified on a screen, as individual, free-floating entities.
It then becomes difficult to change perspective.
One clinic, at least - at the Hammersmith Hospital in London - provides photo-
graphs of these embryos for women to take home with them. The senior counsellor
Jennifer Hunt explained that women welcomed the photographs, and that it helped
them if no pregnancy resulted to have evidence that they had 'got to the embryo
stage'.
People come to IVF clinics with expectations about what will happen there, and
often do not wish those expectations to be disturbed. Deferring to the judgements
embodied in the current practices of the IVF team, the possibility of triplets may
be regarded as an 'acceptable risk' of an assisted conception procedure (Price 1991).
A man attending one of the private clinics with his partner who was awaiting IVF,
acknowledged that this was his position: 'I would imagine that a lot of people would
be in our sort of position. They'll take it [the possibility of triplets] as an accepted
 Now you see it, now you don't 91

risk, without really giving it much thought.' He made it clear that he felt ambivalent
about the idea of any information which jeopardised this sense of acceptance: 'We're
paying for this treatment and we're paying to come to experts and if experts think
that that's [the transfer of three embryos] the best thing to do, well, that's what
we'll do.'
He was satisfied with the level of communication about the procedure. Such data
as there are suggest that it can be inordinately difficult to switch context, to envisage
consequences of an IVF procedure projected beyond the confines of the clinic - in
effect, one context 'decontextualises' another.13
Most of the women and men attending infertility clinics whom I interviewed
welcomed the prospect of having twins: they had absorbed the idea that twins are
a possibility after IVF from newspaper accounts, friends and from the clinics them-
selves. Photographs of twins born to women after undergoing IVF line the walls of
rooms and corridors in many clinics. That there were risks attached to this outcome
came as a shock to some of those interviewed (Price 1991). One woman described
her surprise on being told by clinic staff of the risks of a twin pregnancy:
We knew that there was a risk [of a multiple pregnancy] because of the press and
things making you aware of it. But we were actually - well, I was really thinking it
would be a wonderful thing to have twins. And then they said at the [clinic's waiting
list] seminar that they don't like multiple pregnancies because it's dangerous! So I was
thinking about it more.

Other women and men attending infertility clinics adopted broader 'acceptance'
strategies. They denied the need to make enquiries beyond what they were told by
the clinic. They, like the apprentices at Sellafield, interviewed by Brian Wynne and
his co-researchers about their knowledge of radioactivity, did not want to know more
(Wynne 1991), or 'to go into it', as one man whom I interviewed put it:
Some people just seem to go along [with it] like we do. We just sort of go along. We
don't - we get told everytime we come to a meeting, you know, what's going to be
happening next. We don't tend to sort of go into it. (Emphasis added).

His partner added: 'We think it's almost superstition in a way. I don't want to talk
about it, because at the end of it, if nothing happens'. This strategy makes these
couples particularly vulnerable if there is an adverse outcome. Those people in the
National Study who reported that they had accepted the IVF procedure without
question were the least prepared for triplets or quadruplets because they had never
envisaged the possibility. They may be greatly shocked by any untoward consequence
of treatment.
Their vulnerablity stems in part from the fact that they are tacitly encouraged to
trust that untoward outcomes can be anticipated and remedied in clinical practice.
This vulnerability is further compounded by the extent to which they come to
 92 FRANCES PRICE

perceive the procedure (including the decision about the number of embryos to
transfer) as the responsibility of the clinician - and so contextualised within the
medical frame.
One example of such apparent detachment from the possible future familial
implications of the IVF procedure comes from a woman in the National Study
who was told at her first scan that all four embryos that had been transferred
had implanted. She spoke of the experience as 'bizarre'. 'You are not able to
analyze your own feelings' she said 'It's something so weird\ Her partner added:
'For quite some time we didn't know what that meant. Whether it meant that
eventually there would be four. Or whether it meant that they would, as it were,
be discarded along the way?'
Viewing their embryos seemed to encourage patients to see the transfer of three
(or in earlier years, four) embryos as simply part of the medical procedure; the link
between the entities in view, and the prospect of a high-risk multiple birth, and its
relational consequences, are obscured. The focus for both clinician and patient
becomes the facilitation of a pregnancy, and the procedure of transferring more than
one embryo comes to be regarded as an acceptable risk.

Ultrasound images of the fetus

Fetal images, and information disclosed about them, may be of profound significance
in the lived experience of pregnancy (Stewart 1986). However, scans are undertaken,
first and foremost, to inform the clinical management of the pregnancy. The focus
on obtaining a good-enough diagnostic image for 'appropriate patient care' lies at the
heart of the use of ultrasonography in obstetrics. In this context, what is visualised
through this 'window on the womb' is controversially regarded as a patient within a
patient (Strong 1987). The second patient is modelled in sound waves on a monitor:
the screen becomes the workplace for diagnosis and, sometimes, therapy. Through
this medium, the fetus comes to be regarded as 'knowable' by the clinician, in a way
that is seen as detached from or independent of the pregnant woman (Petchesky
1987). New 'responsibilities' arise as the fetus is constructed as having a claim to
separate medical attention, which in turn alters the dynamics of the doctor-pregnant
patient relationship.
Ultrasound was developed as an alternative means of viewing the fetus in the late
1950s, when the dangers of using X-rays to examine the fetus were finally recognised
(Stewart et al. 1958; Oakley 1984). From improvised early applications, this low cost
technology is now highly developed, in widespread use and provides a useful illus-
tration of how scientific and technical uncertainties are managed in this medical
speciality (Price 1990). A beam of very brief pulses of high-frequency sound, gener-
ated by a transducer placed in contact with a pregnant woman's skin, or more
 Now you see it, now you don't 93

recently inserted vaginally, is directed through her body and partly reflected by soft
tissues. The echoes from the reflections are visualised as an image on a screen for
the operator to interpret.
Ultrasonography is presumed to be benign because no adverse effects have been
demonstrated unambiguously in humans, yet many uncertainties surround the scan-
ning procedure (Price 1990; Merritt 1989; Berkowitz 1993).14 However, there has
been relatively little discussion of the technology's potential for misuse, or how infor-
mation about the ultrasound image is conveyed to the pregnant woman.
Ultrasound is used routinely in later pregnancy to allow clinicians to assess the
growth and development of the fetus and to predict the delivery date. In fact, since
the late 1970s, this has become the most routinised of the reproductive technologies
in Britain, while commentators in North America have referred to the sonogram as
'a new pregnancy ritual'. Typically, women 'go for a scan' without signing consent
forms and without any counselling. What they 'see', however, depends on the manner
in which the image is presented to them.
Today, women undergoing a scan are allowed to participate in the scanning pro-
cedure in so far as they can view the image of their fetus. This was not always the
case. Stuart Campbell's work at King's College Hospital in the early 1980s is often
cited as the turning-point in this regard (Campbell et al. 1982). His research team
demonstrated that pregnant women prefer to see, rather than not see, their fetus on
the screen. And they prefer to be told something about what the scan reveals and to
have various structures pointed out to them. Women who saw the scan of their fetus
and who received information about it were deemed by the researchers to be more
positive afterwards about both the scan and themselves.
On the basis of this work, the research team urged that women should be allowed
to view scans. They surmised that fetuses would benefit from their mothers' more
positive attitudes, and also reasoned that the women who were shown and told about
their fetus on scan would be more likely to comply with health care recommen-
dations, and, in particular, directives on smoking and drinking alcohol (Reading et
al. 1982). It was at this point that the standard antenatal practice of limiting access
to diagnostic images was abandoned in the interests of greater patient control and
compliance.
But the scan remains, overwhelmingly, in the medical domain. The technique is
performed in the interests of monitoring fetal growth and development to inform the
clinical management of the pregnancy. A woman seeing her ultrasound scan is
unlikely to be able unaided to interpret this way of rendering the world. In a study by
Milne and Rich, most of the pregnant women undergoing ultrasonography reported
considerable difficulty in identifying what they were seeing, although they recalled
recognising movement and patterns. None challenged the authority of the scan oper-
ator in interpreting the image for them (Milne and Rich 1981).
 94 FRANCES PRICE

There is evidence to suggest that most women who are offered an ultrasound scan
regard it as more than a medical procedure, however. Hyde's study of pregnant
women's attitudes to antenatal scanning indicated that women believed it would be
interesting, reassuring or 'good to see the baby' even when there was no clinical
indication to have a scan (Hyde 1986). When the scan is a routine antenatal pro-
cedure, women are encouraged to regard it as a positive process. They expect to be
reassured. Indeed, in the clinic's appointment schedule, the brief time allowed for
each scan assumes that 'all is well'. But these simple expectations are in practice
easily disrupted. Quite apart from the uncertainties surrounding diagnosis by ultra-
sonography, the influence of the social organisation of the ultrasound technology has
to be taken into account.
The division of labour in diagnostic ultrasonography is marked. The technology
is operated by paramedical staff- radiographers, medical physics technicians or mid-
wives - who are presumed to possess the skills needed to produce numerical and
interpretational data. Usually, however, it is radiographers who report the findings
to the referring clinicians (Witcombe and Radford 1986). The clinicians then use
this data to make a diagnosis or prognosis concerning, for instance, the presence of
abnormalities, multiple pregnancies, or projected date of delivery. If radiographers
choose to communicate their findings to patients, to explain and to reassure, they are
contravening the guidance given by the Disciplinary Committee of the Radi-
ographer's Board in consultation with the Council for the Professions Supplementary
to Medicine: 'No registered radiographer should knowingly disclose to any patient
or to any unauthorised person the result of any investigation' (quoted in Witcombe
and Radford 1986: 113).
This division of labour crucially interrupts the relationship between pregnant
women and obstetricians. It is the radiographers who have to deal with the pregnant
women together with the image on the screen. As data-gatherers, faced with the
screen and the pregnant woman, they are not bound by the ethics of the doctor-
patient relationship. Because of the restrictions on communication, the division of
diagnostic responsibility between operator and consultant or GP may cause distress
when an anomaly is found. Women watch the scanning procedure. They scan the
faces of the operators intently. They observe their body language. They hear the
exclamations, and emotion is a powerful communicative resource.
Women reported that they knew when 'something was not right', as did one
woman who was later told that she was pregnant with triplets:
They were scanning me up and down, you know. And I realised, you know, I said to
myself 'How come they're taking such a long time? you know. Then the first nurse (scan
operator) who was scanning me called another nurse (scan operator) over and you know
they were looking at the screen and then they were looking at each other . . . they didn't say
anything to me but they just kept scanning. And then, after a while, one of them turned
 Now you see it, now you don't 95

back, looked at me and smiled. So I said 'Is there anything wrong?' So she says 'No' and
carried on smiling and screening me. (Emphasis added)

Describing her first ultrasound scan (which revealed to the operator that she might
be pregnant with triplets) one woman explained that she had expected that going
for a scan meant that she was 'going to come back with the results straight away'.
But, as it turned out, she 'came back home with nothing', and spent the whole
weekend worrying:
INTERVIEWER And did they detect three [fetuses] on the scan straight away?
MOTHER They did. But it was peculiar. They wouldn't tell me anything. Just wouldn't
say anything. It was dreadful.
INTERVIEWER You saw the screen?
MOTHER Well I saw it. But it's not very easy to sort of pick out what's happening on
the screen and she didn't volunteer any information. But I think it was
awkward for her really. Because she couldn't tell me anything because it
wasn't her place to. But she did, you know, to be fair, I think she wanted to
tell me.
INTERVIEWER Can you describe what happened?
MOTHER Well I just said to her 'Can you tell me, you know, anything about the scan?'
This was after she'd done the scan when I was dressed again and um she said
'No I'm sorry. I can't' she said. 'Your GP has to tell you that.' So she said
'But I will go and ring him for you if you want and see what he says.' Well, I
mean, thinking back, I suppose common sense should have told me that it was
nothing bad or she would have been - she didn't look upset or anything.
Common sense would have told me that it couldn't have been all that bad or
else — she didn't look upset or as if she'd found anything horrific there. But
she also didn't give me any clues at all. And she went to ring him and he just
said 'No! That she wasn't allowed to tell me. And so of course she came back
and said 'You've got to make an appointment in a few days' time to go and
see your doctor.' Because he thought he wanted the results of the scan and it
would take a few days for them to reach, to go from the hospital to him. And
so I had to wait a couple of days, which was awful.
INTERVIEWER Can you remember what went through your mind?
MOTHER Well I just thought that there was something wrong. I mean I just thought it
was that there was something wrong with 'the baby'. I mean it just hadn't
crossed my mind that it was twins. And I went back to work all upset about
the whole thing. And my boss said 'Oh, I've got a friend and she's a midwife.
I'll give her a ring and see what she's got to say.' So she gave her a ring and
she just said 'Oh I shouldn't think there is anything to worry about' and she
did say to my boss 'Oh I expect it is twins if they won't tell her' but she
didn't tell me this because she didn't feel it was her place to you see. So I
mean I just thought all the wrong things. I didn't think any of the right
things. Just thought all of the wrong things I just thought that there was
something wrong with 'the baby' you know.
 96 FRANCES PRICE

Other women offered resistance: they reported that they became angry and refused
to leave the clinic until their claim to be informed was recognised.
The scan operator was very kind and calm at first and explained things to me as she
went along until she had obviously found three babies. Then chaos! She would not tell
me why at first. Four other scan operators came in and had a look. The radiographer
at first told me a letter would be sent to my GP and for me to make an appointment
to see the GP in 10-14 days time. This I could not accept and made a fuss until I was
told there and then [that she was expecting triplets].

Their distress turned on the lack of acknowledgement of their need to know what
had transpired. Another woman recounted:
I was scanned by a radiologist at the first scan — told to come back the next day by a
nursing officer. On asking why, was told couldn't tell me - come back tomorrow to be
scanned by a doctor. I refused to move and was then told they suspected multiple
pregnancy. Why I could not be told in the first place I do not know. It was, after all
my pregnancy.

Lorraine Code has pointed to the ease with which self-doubt and dependence is
created in such situations:

The crucial difference, as I see it, turns upon acknowledgement. There is no more
effective means of creating epistemic dependence than systematically withholding
acknowledgement from a person's cognitive utterances; no more effective way of
maintaining structures of epistemic privilege and vulnerability than evincing a
persistent distrust in a person's efforts to claim cognitive authority; no surer way of
demonstrating a refusal to know a person as 2L person than observing her 'objectively'
without taking seriously what her experiences mean to her. (Code 1992).

The image on the screen is visibly separate from the pregnant woman and she is
likely to become perturbed if her medical attendants respond entirely to the image
and ignore her presence. One woman complained: 'the fact that I was even involved
and upset seemed irrelevant'. Another woman reported that when her triplets were
diagnosed, 'everyone rushed in to look at the monitor and ignored me'.
Pregnant with quadruplets, a woman described her long ordeal, as she was scanned
and rescanned for two hours by one of the leading clinical specialists in obstetric
ultrasonography:
They had a better quality screen [than at her local hospital where she had had her first
scans] so they pointed things out to me and explained certain things, but most of the
time they talked to themselves with 'Ooohs!' and 'Aghs!' as if I was not even there! I
was occasionally asked if I was O.K., but before I could answer properly they said 'Jolly
good' and ignored me again.

In a survey conducted for the National Childbirth Trust (NCT) about its members'
experience of ultrasound scanning a prominent theme in the letters received was of
 Now you see it, now you don't 97

disquiet about the operator's lack of communicativeness or distant attitude. The

report of the NCT survey included the quote: 'She ran the scanner over my stomach
while discussing last Saturday's party with someone else' (Smith 1985).
Such is the belief in the power of the machine and its image as 'truth transporting',
without any need for the woman as witness, that it can override a woman's own
experience. One woman who was pregnant with triplets, for instance, became con-
vinced that her babies were dead, even though she could feel kicks. She spoke about
the experience of her recent scan:
Unfortunately, on the last occasion I was scanned, I must have been down there almost
three-quarters of an hour. And it is very distressing lying on the table. And she had to
do several measurements twice because it was so difficult to get an accurate
measurement, which again I understand because with three in there it is very, very
hard for her [to measure].

She had felt very dizzy and queasy during the scan and had returned to her bed in
a sideward of the maternity hospital, overwhelmed by the idea that, because she had
not received reassurance from the scan operator, all was not well. Her conviction
that this was the case was such that she discounted the fact that she could feel the
babies kicking.
Got back up onto the bed, [her husband] went, and I laid here for about three or four
hours and I knew my notes had come up and the doctor walked in the room and
flashed a tape measure round me and then shot off again. And I'm, of course,
emotionally, emotionally you're at your lowest anyway and I'm convinced — you know:
'Oh my God, they're dead, they're dead.' I could feel them kicking, but you know,
that was beside the point. And the nurses were avoiding all eye to eye contact, or so I
thought. And by the end of the afternoon I was just in floods of tears because nobody
had come and told me anything and I just thought: they can only be withholding
information because it's bad news.

The deterministic status given to the imaging technique is a cause for concern
(Daly 1989). Advances in ultrasound equipment yield not only more data, but also
greater uncertainty about its interpretation: 'each machine update shows the observer
features never recognised before' (Furness 1987). New features displayed on the scan
have to be identified and this both extends the range of normality at each stage of
gestation and adds to knowledge about human development. New observations, she
cautions, contribute to an already sizeable list of visual anomalies - 'artifacts and
red herrings' - which are sometimes distressingly misidentified as potential birth
defects. Furthermore, some conditions previously identified only at birth can now
be identified on scan, opening up clinical management decisions about the possibility
of prenatal intervention. Nevertheless, a misdiagnosis or an intervention following
diagnosis may lead to the termination of a wanted and normal pregnancy. Furness,
an Australian radiographer, recounts how, 'an anxious nurse' cannot be dissuaded
 FRANCES PRICE

from the decision to terminate her pregnancy after she is told that she needs a repeat
scan at 16 weeks, 'because her 12 and a half week fetus may have exomphalos'
(Furness 1987). This is just one example of the cascade effect in clinical care where
one medical intervention - the ultrasound scan - may lead to another with an
unwanted outcome for the woman.

Conclusion
In reproductive medicine, images of fetuses and embryos are shown selectively to
patients. Women were permitted to witness their ultrasound scans after research
seemed to show that they 'liked' seeing the scan of their fetus and that the practice
improved compliance in the double sense of greater social control of the patient,
and greater legitimation of the technology. IVF clinics may also give their patients
the opportunity to view their embryos as images projected from a microscope onto
a screen. There the matter might well end as a topic of clinical concern. Yet dilemmas
can arise when the patient also views the image, or can at least observe the observers,
a witness to the image making.
When clinical practice involves collaborative tasks in the presence of women
patients, they are well placed to 'see' (and conjecture about) what is 'going on' before
they are told. More meets their eye than is on the agenda for discussion by their medical
attendants. When all seems well, this may not appear a cause for concern: the mutual
project on which both they and their doctors are engaged is reassurance. They are told
what they have 'seen'. The control of information the women might wish to receive is,
in medical practice, at the discretion .of the clinician, as knowledgeable expert.
If patients perceive that something is amiss, this perception may contribute to a
sense of anxiety that matters are out of personal control. Consequently, they may
'break the frame' and reinsert what has been relegated as 'beyond the frame'. This
is difficult for the clinicians to manage, and their response may seem inappropriate.
This perceived disjuncture in the management of uncertainty is highly significant in
relation to discussions about the public understanding of science.
Similarly, measurements of the fetal image can confuse. Furness provides a strik-
ing example of a woman who was disturbed when information about her baby's
development was conveyed, without explanation, in figures derived from measure-
ments of femur and head circumference:
A general practitionerringsto ask what he should tell Mrs Smith: she has just seen a
report saying her fetus has a 32-week-size head and a 34-week femur, and she is
convinced she has a long-legged mentally retarded child.

In such situations, the conditions of the transfer of knowledge become crucial. The
responsibility for ensuring the pregnant woman sees and is told 'enough' to be
 Now you see it, now you don't 99

reassured is in the hands of experts, who with benign intent may not only make her
anxious but create what Garfinkel referred to as 'troubles': situations of disruption
and confusion besetting unsuspecting people during the course of their participation
in a routine procedure.15
The status structures and division of labour within medical practice are inimical
in this situation. Communication and negotiation over knowledge needs is impeded.
Women may be bewildered when what they witness is not explained, when the
reasons for the refusal to provide information are not made plain and seem to deny
accepted social norms about avoiding upsetting people unnecessarily. Their viewing
is not contained by the frame of the imaging device. Trust may be undermined
rather than enhanced. Women undergoing scans want to be reassured and readily
sense when 'something is amiss'; as astute social observers, they pick up visual clues
to uncertainty in scan operators and their colleagues. They may also glimpse the
local uncertainties of the science which grounds the medical practice (Star 1985).
However, for both clinician and patient, the science-in-the-making underlying
routine medical practice is normally obscured. In the clinic, the scanning device is
'black-boxed' and is in routine use. Moreover, the organisation of clinical practice
does not allow for the social consequences of ambiguities or difficulties of interpret-
ation. Similarly, in the IVF clinic, the uncertainties underlying the choosing of how
many, and which, embryos to transfer is obscured by routinised practice.
In reproductive medicine, scientific models applied routinely in the clinic become
locked up in medical practice, become established as expertise and become the 'fact'
of the matter, fortified by the clinicians' professional status. Once established as
medical expertise, clinical practice may be difficult to change. In this manner, medi-
cine mediates, and obscures, the scientific uncertainties of ultrasonography and
embryology and is sustained by professional structures characterised by closure and
clinical autonomy and by the rhetoric of the doctor-patient relationship. These social
processes produce premature social closure around still experimental and open-ended
technical practices.
A diagnosis is only as good as the science underpinning the diagnostic test or
device. By fostering belief in the efficacy of imaging devices and what images can
signify, the medical profession risks both inducing unnecessary anxiety and creating
unrealistic expectations about a standard of care that cannot be delivered.
The public image of science is also compromised. Science has enabled a privileged
view, a 'window on the womb', and the development of promising diagnostic tests,
but the contingencies of scientific evidence can get lost in the authoritative conven-
tions of medical practice.
This is an important consideration in the public understanding of science as
new reproductive and genetic technologies not only present new opportunities for
intervention but influence the way people conceptualise the possibilities. The
 100 FRANCES PRICE

geneticist Sydney Brenner has argued that the scientific discoveries of the Human
Genome Project can be conveyed unproblematically to the public through the
mediation of the medical profession.16 He holds it best that the communication
of the 'new knowledge' about human genetic makeup be conveyed 'through the
conduit of current medical practice' (Brenner 1992). He argues that medicine
furnishes adequate protection; no novel 'ethical issues' arise. Yet clinicians are
responsible for conveying information in a way that manages uncertainty. What
they convey may not be 'good enough' to enable patients to appreciate the
uncertainties of the underlying science. Moreover, as long as medical practice
continues to be shielded from demands of democratic legitimation, biomedical
knowledge narrowly conceived is likely to be given primacy above any relational
knowledge (Beck 1992). This might not matter if it did not bear on certain
controversies and 'persuade' others into believing new 'facts' and behaving in
new ways (Miringoff 1991). Contemporary genetics has already profoundly altered
our notion of personhood. As Marilyn Strathern has reiterated, we need a
relational ground for our genetic knowledge (Strathern 1992).
It is important to focus on what is left out or obscured when medical practitioners
mediate reproductive and genetic knowledge through their practices, not least their
management of images. We need to question representational practices within the
clinic, to reveal how these practices are experienced, and what the consequences are,
particularly for women.

NOTES

1. The National Study of Triplets and Higher Order Births was the first population-based
study of the problems faced by those responsible for the care of these children. I was
responsible for the Parents' Study which was funded by the Department of Health (JS 240/
85/13, see Price 1989).
2. Women and men attending designated infertility clinics were asked if they would co-operate
in discussing what would be helpful written material to enable them to consider the prospect
of a triplet pregnancy. These interviews were tape-recorded in the clinics. This project was
also funded by the Department of Health and arose directly from the Parents' Study of the
National Study of Triplets and Higher Order Births.
3. Lynch describes how these practices are accomplished by researchers working together in
groups. He concludes 'The point is that the practices are necessary for constituting data,
whether or not they are seen to be a source of error, and that it is only when they are taken
for granted that the attribution of mathematical order to "nature" can succeed' (Lynch 1990:
182).
4. As Pasveer illustrates, seeing by means of X-rays 'had to be learnt by doing'. She draws
attention to the ways in which the specific content of X-ray images were shaped by the
activities of early X-ray workers: 'there were no implicit meanings in the pictures'. And, as
she remarks, 'The early X-ray images showed too much and therefore too little' (Pasveer 1990:
365).
 Now you see it, now you don't 101

5. For example, artifact 'misrecognition' in early microscopy led to reports and illustrations of
not only 'globules' in tissue structure, but also minute 'homunculi' in spermatozoa. Only later
was the appearance of these phenomena attributed to aberrations in the lenses and to the
imprecise optics of the microscopes in use at the time. See Bradbury, S. (1967a) The
Evolution of the Microscope (Oxford: Pergamon Press); Bradbury, S. (1967b) The Microscope,
Past and Present (Oxford: Pergamon Press); Lynch, M. (1985) Art and Artifact in Laboratory
Science (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul).
6. Quantitative risk assessment is presumed to be free of institutional interests and
constraints (Wynne 1987). Risks as probabilistic adverse outcomes (for which there is
some measure of outcome magnitude) are distinguished from uncertainty. Probabilities
about future 'states of the world' however, cannot be elicited where data are lacking, and
risk problems are not well structured. This is the situation in relation to technologies in
clinical practice and there is a paucity of research (O'Brien 1986: 41). It is more
appropriate to refer to uncertainty rather than risk, given the level of contemporary
disagreements about the definition, measurement, and comprehension of the probabilities
to be attached to outcomes in medicine and also the complexities of institutional interests
and constraints.
7. The 1990 issue of the IVF Congress Magazine published 'as a special information service to
doctors' by one of the leading pharmaceutical companies in the field of IVF reported:
'Studies in Paris have shown that a combination of two non-invasive embryo tests do provide
a possible prediction of pregnancy - first an embryo morphology assessment, and second, a
chronological evaluation of embryonic growth in which the speed of cleavage is scored.' But
then the article continued: 'While Dr Plachot [Dr Michelle Plachot of the Hopital Necker in
Paris] agreed that the two tests in combination offered some predictive accuracy, she
conceded, that used alone each of the tests had produced conflicting and controversial results.
Less controversial - but no less experimental - was a second non-invasive viability test in
which embryonic health is measured by the embryo's ability to consume pyruvate. "The
relationship between pyruvate uptake and embryo quality may provide the best assessment of
viability" said Dr Plachot.' (Cited in item headed 'Embryo quality holds key to IVF's
success' in IVF Congress Magazine 1990, p. 7).
8. Karen Dawson 'The First Fourteen Days' transcript of the BBC Horizon programme
transmitted 26th February 1990, p. 16.
9. In the early 1980s it was authoritatively asserted that the IVF pregnancy rate would increase
with the number of embryos transferred in each treatment cycle (Biggers 1981). By the
mid-1980s pooled counts from IVF centres around the world served to confirm such
predictions and encouraged the transfer of between three and six embryos in clinical practice
(Seppala 1985). Concern about the marked increase in multiple pregnancies came later.
10. The annual statistics produced in the United Kingdom by the Interim Licensing Authority
for Human In Vitro Fertilisation and Embryology (ILA, formerly the Voluntary Licensing
Authority, VLA) show a clear association between the rise of multiple births from 1985
onward and the increased use of IVF, GIFT, and associated procedures (ILA 1991).
Britain's Medical Research Council (MRC) Working Party on Children Conceived by In
Vitro Fertilisation reported that 23 per cent of deliveries following assisted conception by
IVF or GIFT occurring on or before 31st December 1987 resulted in a multiple birth of
twins or more, compared with about 1 per cent for natural conceptions (MRC 1990). There
is an additional risk factor: a higher-than-expected frequency of identical (monozygotic)
 102 FRANCES PRICE

twins has also been observed, not only after the induction of ovulation with drugs, but also
after IVF and GIFT (Edwards et al. 1986, Derom et al. 1987, Price 1989). Thus there are
reports of three eggs or embryos being transferred in a GIFT or IVF procedure and the
outcome being a quadruplet pregnancy.
11. The National Study showed that such children are, in all senses, high cost (Mugford
1990). Triplets and quadruplets are more likely than single babies to be of low birth
weight and to be born prematurely, with all the associated neonatal difficulties and
increased risk of disability and continuing developmental problems. Over half of the
quadruplets and just over a quarter of the triplets weighed under 1500 grams at birth.
Births occurred before 32 weeks' gestation in about half the quadruplet or higher order
births and a quarter of the triplets. By contrast, information from the British Maternity
Hospital In-Patient Enquiry indicates that only 1 per cent of singletons and fewer than
10 per cent of twins were born before 32 weeks. Furthermore, the National Study
showed that 28 per cent of the triplets and 62 per cent of the quadruplets spent a
month or more in neonatal intensive care. Mugford has calculated that the average
National Health Service cost of hospital care is about £12 000 for triplets and over
£25 000 for a set of quadruplets or more (Mugford 1990). Neonatal care accounts for
more than 60 per cent of the total cost. And very few parents in the U K seek to pay
for neonatal care in the private sector of medicine.
12. Hallam Medical Centre Patient Support Group Newsletter November 1990, p. 17.
13. Few people have known children from a triplet, quadruplet or higher order set. Even
fewer have provided care or support for these children, for their parents, and for any
siblings. For most people, the prospect of triplets or more is too remote to be
imaginable. Ignorance seems understandable: the problems faced by those responsible for
their delivery, care, and welfare are not widely known. When, however, clinicians
advocate medical practices and procedures that increase the risk of such plural births,
such ignorance becomes disconcerting.
14. The presumed 'safety' of ultrasound associated with diagnostic exposure is a sensitive and
much discussed issue, particularly in relation to early pregnancy. However there is no
clear-cut scientific advice because there is no scientifically adequate database for developing
estimates of bioeffects and of risk. A number of reports have pointed to unresolved questions
of risk associated with ultrasound exposure at levels generated by commercial diagnostic
devices (Harris et al. 1989).
It is not the medical profession which has brought to the fore these issues about current
knowledge and the different forms of practice, nor kept open the debate about the balance of
possible benefits and hazards of routine ultrasound screening in obstetrics. In Britain it is the
paramedicals, in the main radiologists, midwives, and consumer groups, who have taken the
lead.
15. Garfinkel developed the use of 'troubles' as a discovery procedure by creating such situations
(Garfinkel 1967: 35-75).
16. Royal Society meeting, London 1991.

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 5 Ignoring science: discourses of ignorance
in the public understanding of science
MIKE MICHAEL

Introduction
The starting-point of this chapter is the observation that people do not simply possess
knowledge about scientific 'facts' and scientific procedures and processes, they can
also reflect upon the epistemological status of that knowledge. In addition, I argue
that this active reflection can directly affect their responses to science and scientific
experts. In feeling uncertainty about their understanding of science, or in identifying
a 'lack' in their knowledge, people are making tacit judgements in relation to the
authoritative source or sources of that knowledge. Thus people can review the stand-
ing of their scientific and technological knowledge in relation to some more or less
expert source such as scientists, the media, friends and relatives, and so on. As such,
identity cannot but be implicated. Conversely, the ways in which people regard
themselves and the value they place upon their scientific knowledge, affects the ways
in which they understand science. We have, therefore, a sort of discursive jigsaw in
which identity, the status of lay scientific knowledge, and scientific expertise are
delimited.
This chapter will, first of all, briefly examine three approaches to the public under-
standing of science which are essentially interested in describing the scientific knowl-
edge that people 'possess'. The fact that these approaches ignore issues concerning
the reflexivity and identity of lay people, suggests their underpinning model of the
individual is fundamentally mechanistic. The implication is that a particular rep-
resentation or narrative of the lay person is promoted; in some cases, this is further
disseminated through the media. These 'knowledge description' approaches will then
be contrasted with a social constructionist/discourse analysis of the public under-
standing of science. Further, I will focus on one particular facet of the public under-
standing of science. When talking to lay people about their scientific knowledge, in
many cases we found that people simply do not possess any of the 'relevant' (at least
for the investigator) scientific knowledge; they do not simply have a 'defective' body
 108 MIKE MICHAEL

of quasi-scientific knowledge, they have none at all. However, people are very adept
at reflecting upon this manifest absence of knowledge, that is, upon their 'ignorance'. 1
The aim of this paper is to explore the discourses of ignorance that people mobilise
when reflexively commenting upon their lack of scientific knowledge. We will take
it that people are not merely 'rationalising' to save face; their reflections also represent
other social reasons for defending their 'ignorance', reasons that overspill the confines
of the immediate situation. Thus, our task is to trace some of the functions that these
discourses might fulfil in formulating a social relationship between themselves and
science. We take it as given that the discursive route that people take in locating
themselves and their 'ignorance' in relation to science reflects and mediates the sorts
of social identities available to them. Such identities will range from the general
(what it is to be a member of the lay public) to the local (what it is to be a member
of a particular community, profession, or social group). However, while I will make
suggestions as to what sort of social identities are being mobilised and realised
through discourses of ignorance, my present purpose is more modest: namely to map
out these discourses and the ways in which these contrive a relation between self and
science.

Knowledge description approaches

The three approaches I will consider here are: survey analyses of the contents of the
public understanding of science and of attitudes towards science; the theory of social
representations; and the 'mental models' approach.
The first approach to public understanding of science to be considered here is
that entailing survey methodology. As the Royal Society report2 notes:

There are many surveys of attitudes towards science and technology both in the UK
and overseas, especially in the USA. But there has been much less effort outside the
formal education system devoted to assessing the understanding of science and
technology.3

Where comparisons are drawn the links are not at all clear. Beveridge and Rudell4
in reviewing the 1985 Science Indicators Report note that, while expressions of inter-
est in science are great, science informedness is considerably lower (irrespective of
whether such informedness was self-reported or externally measured). These obser-
vations have received further support from survey work carried out under the Public
Understanding of Science Programme by John Durant's team.5 The Royal Society's
lament that the public lacks scientific knowledge appears, in light of such evidence,
increasingly worrying.
 Ignoring science 109

What assumptions are operating here? Clearly, we see a neglect of the reflexive
and social character of understanding. To a somewhat greater extent than the 'mental
models' and social representation (see below) approaches, people are treated as essen-
tially repositories of information. In all three cases, the analyst dips into them, and,
with the relevant methodology, resurfaces with a description of their contents, that
is, the 'understandings' of science. This reductionist apprehension of the layperson
and her knowledge is, as will be elaborated below, highly problematic and misleading.
The 'mental models' and social representation approaches tend to define (and even
celebrate) the contents of these repositories as eccentric: the extent to which these
understandings deviate from the norms of science are explained in terms of cognitive
or practical functions. In contrast, the survey research tends to focus upon the intel-
lectual deficiencies in people's understandings as measured against some objective
or authoritative body of scientific knowledge. Indeed, it adheres to what Brian Wynne
has dubbed the Deficit model.6
This view of the public as mechanistic and deficient with regard to the understand-
ing of science is not confined to the academic domain.7 The media publicity given
to the findings of such survey work has been considerable. With sub-headlines such
as 'With more than a third of the population not knowing that the earth goes round
the sun, Britain could be in serious trouble' {Sunday Times, 19 November 1989),
the narrative of public deficit is conveyed to a wider audience, and the contrast
between a knowledgeable science and an ignorant public is reiterated.
However, the survey research is informed by a specific policy purpose: to encour-
age and nurture democratic participation. Only by identifying and measuring the
gaps in people's understanding can the level of scientific literacy be raised to that
required to make informed judgements in contemporary democracies. Yet the rem-
edies for this 'deficit' merely reinvoke the power-relation of a dominant science and
a subservient public. Thus the Royal Society recommends that there should be an
increase in the amount and quality of science education, in media coverage of science,
and in scientists' popularising input into the public sphere: science is the active
disseminator and the fountain of meaning and agency, the public are merely the
passive receivers and repositories.
This contrasts to the second 'knowledge description' approach that I will con-
sider - the social psychological perspective known as social representation theory.
Moscovici8 has characterised social representations as concepts, statements, images,
and explanations that originate in the course of inter-individual communication and
whose prime function is to make the unfamiliar familiar. The particular relevance
of this perspective on research into the public understanding of science is that social
representations are considered to render the unfamiliar productions of science famil-
iar. Surprisingly, the range of social representations that have been studied includes
relatively few drawn from the sciences. For example, from the biological sciences
 110 MIKE MICHAEL

social representations of Aids9 and health and illness in general10 have been studied;
from the social sciences public opinion polls11 have been considered.
One study that has engaged with physical processes is that conducted, two weeks
after Chernobyl, by Galli and Nigro,12 into social representations of radioactivity
among Italian children aged between nine and twelve. These workers found that
children's drawings of radiation often took the form of a dark pink cloud. This image
could be traced back to representations of the Chernobyl cloud that had appeared
on television. Despite the source being the media, Galli and Nigro concluded that
for the majority of children who had (re)produced the 'pink cloud' representation,
the radioactivity was the pink cloud. Chernobyl radioactivity had, in Moscovici's
terms, become 'objectified' as a pink cloud.
It would seem unwise however to generalise this link to other situations and
groups. For example, adults might well treat such representations as just that -
concocted media representations of a complex physical phenomenon. They would
recognise that, while they themselves might not be able to reformulate the radiation
in terms other than a pink cloud, radiation would nevertheless still be distinct from
its media representation. This raises the vital issue of the reflexive assessment of the
wider credibility of particular social representations. What is missing in Galli and
Nigro's work is an analysis of the ways that people might construe the epistemological
status of their knowledge. This would include, crucially, a broader consideration of
how, in those cases where knowledge is 'lacking' or where there is an unwillingness
to reveal what is known, laypeople construct this absence. This would tap into the
sorts of relationship between the layperson and science that are implied in reflection
upon 'ignorance'.
Finally, the third knowledge description approach is that developed by cognitive
psychologists who have examined the understanding of science and technology in
terms of the 'mental models' that people have of numerous scientific or technological
phenomena. Thus we have studies of: motion,13 electricity,14 home heat control,15 and
evaporation.16 Quinn and Holland17 have suggested that 'mental models' of physical
processes can be picked up and put down at will: they serve as tools. The emphasis
is thus on the instrumental use of such models and as such there is little examination
of the social and cultural contexts of these models. This stands in contrast to those
studies of cultural models of social phenomena such as marriage,18 gender types,19
and mind20 which do engage with the social embeddedness of such cognitions.
The main point I want to raise in relation to the appropriation of public under-
standing through the academic construct of 'mental models' concerns 'familiarity'.
If we are to conceptualise 'mental models' as 'tools', we would also expect that
expertise in their use would be dependent on some sort of practice, and incremental
familiarity, with the relevant knowledge domain. The studies mentioned above deal
with respondents who have a familiarity with, and sometimes a profound practical
 Ignoring science 111

understanding of, the knowledge domains being studied by the investigator. In those
more typical cases in which people have only sporadic or fragmented contact with
the relevant knowledge domain, it is difficult to see how 'mental models' could have
been derived. Thus, in our research, when we attempted to get at the 'mental models'
of ionising radiation by using the standard technique of posing various puzzles (for
example, what is more dangerous, low prolonged doses of radiation or short high
doses?), what we found again and again was a peremptory attempt to answer appro-
priately followed by a comment on the status of that answer. In other words, despite
people's initial willingness to play the game, they found they could not do so convinc-
ingly and resorted to glossing that 'inability'. As such they were shifting from 'helpful
respondents' to 'reflexive critical commentators' and in the process drawing upon a
much broader context and array of social identities.
This brings us to another dimension which the mental-models approach neglects:
the morality of knowledge. The knowledge domains themselves are not socially neu-
tral: they signify a concomitant institutional and moral frame. This concerns the
perceived 'right' that one has to talk about ionising radiation. The instances of
'mental models' outlined above - motion, electricity, home heat control, and evapor-
ation - not only have greater familiarity (in general and to the specific respondents
in these studies), they also have a different institutional and political resonance. It
is reasonable to expect, given (some) people's social positioning, that they would be
more comfortable musing on motion or home heating systems than on ionising radi-
ation. In other words, given participants' social uncertainty a propos ionising radi-
ation, it is unsurprising that there is easy recourse to discursive forms which limit
the epistemological status of their knowledge. But, simultaneously, this is not simply
epistemological circumspection, as we shall see, it is a political process whereby our
participants construct a more or less critical relation with science and the institutions
of science.
In sum, there are three problems with the knowledge description approaches out-
lined above. Firstly, ignorance cannot be treated as simple deficit: it entails active
construction. Secondly, in the process of that construction, people reflect upon the
epistemological status of their knowledge. Thirdly, in the act of such reflection, social
and political contexts are drawn upon in order to resource a relation to science. So,
the central thread of this chapter is that people can reflect upon their relations to
scientific knowledge and/or its institutional embodiments. As such they draw upon
discourses that address the differences in knowledgeability. The general point is that
lay understandings of science and scientists are supplemented by people's recognition
of their 'ignorance' of the actual workings of science. Therefore, a necessary, but so
far neglected, component in the public understanding of science concerns the ways
that people formulate this relation of difference from science - a difference that
focuses upon one's own 'ignorance' of its workings. On the level of methodology,
 112 MIKE MICHAEL

such a focus on 'ignorance' offers an important means of probing the public under-
standing of science. On the substantive, theoretical level, we can examine how lay
people's self-ascriptions (of ignorance) set up a relationship between themselves and
science - one in which the causes or reasons behind their 'ignorance' reflect their
social identity and their relations of dependence, co-operation, or challenge - that
is relations of power vis-d-vis science.
This approach therefore explores the ways that people actively construct, and
defend, their absence of knowledge through what I will call discourses of ignorance.
This is not only an interesting research question, it has important educational and
policy implications. Facing any programme of science knowledge dissemination is
the underlying barrier represented by these discourses. Discourses of ignorance not
only constitute a means of understanding and explaining one's lack of knowledge,
they also signify and reflect the perceived social relations between science and lay
person, between self and expert. As such, they are connected with questions of social
or cultural identity, and any educational programme must address what the knowl-
edge it disseminates implies for these socially embedded conceptions of self and
other. As mentioned above, I will make some suggestions as to the types of identities
that feature in the uses of discourses of ignorance, however, my immediate aim is
to document these. A more rounded analysis of these social identities would need to
study the social and cultural backdrop in which the speakers operate, either through
ethnographic study (of the kind found, for example, in Chapter Six) or by imputing
a certain cultural commonality (as suggested in Chapters One and Two).

Ignorance
In considering the way that public 'ignorance' is constructed, I will depart from
Ravetz's treatment of 'ignorance' in the science policy field.21 Ravetz's concern is
with the effects of 'ignorance' in the process of decision-making - 'A decision prob-
lem involves "ignorance" when some components which are real and significant are
unknown to the decider at the crucial moment.'22 Ravetz goes on to suggest that
such 'ignorance' is only discovered retrospectively by decision-makers, and that it
is inherent in the application of technological systems. In contrast to this conception
of 'ignorance', Smithson defines 'ignorance' in the following way: 'A is "ignorant"
from B's viewpoint if A fails to agree with or show awareness of ideas which B
defines as either actually or potentially factually valid.'23 This subjectivist formulation
avoids 'confounding judgements by the social scientist about the validity of the cog-
nition being studied'.24 Smithson duly notes that A and B can be one and the same
person in so far as an individual can ascribe 'ignorance' to self. Smithson's concern
is to treat 'ignorance' as a serious topic for social theory and, to this end, he presents
an impressive array of instances of social life in which 'ignorance' plays a pivotal
 Ignoring science 113

role. For example, he considers: norms against knowing (for example, as evidenced
in politeness phenomena); 'ignorance' strategies and games (for example, in the
courtroom questioning of expert knowledge); the particular settings and occasions
of 'ignorance' (for example, confessions); the role, scripts, and identities associated
with 'ignorance' (for example, the requirement of selective inattention or 'ignorance'
for the successful performance of specific duties). Smithson is primarily interested
in surveying and demarcating the multiplicity of social contexts in which 'ignorance'
is constructed, deployed, and ascribed. In contrast, the present chapter's more
modest ambition is to take up just one strand from Smithson's subtle and wide-
ranging survey. That is, I will explore the way that people use particular discourses
to reflexively comment upon manifest 'ignorance' (in relation to science and ionising
radiation), and thereby tentatively to position themselves in relation to the relevant
institutions and groups, both expert and lay.

Notes on method and analysis

Adopting the methodological approach of discourse analysis,25 I examine the ways
that respondents construct, through their talk, a particular vision of their apparent
lack of scientific knowledge and thereby a view of themselves-in-relation-to science.
In addition, the present work parallels the analysis of Wetherell and Potter.26 These
authors considered the use of narrative characters - discursive constructions of self -
in the mitigation of actions that were possibly blameworthy. They analysed the talk
of people who mainly excused or justified violent police behaviour towards anti-
apartheid demonstrators. While there are similarities in the responses given by
Wetherell and Potter's interviewees and ours - actions were characterised in terms
of rational motivation, role requirement, and natural disposition - I am not centrally
interested in examining these discursive forms in terms of their mitigating function.
Rather, the present emphasis will be on the way that people use these discursive
devices to construct a relation to science and scientific knowledge - a relation which,
I suggest, entails a vision of dependency and autonomy.
While there is inevitably an element of social accountability present in the use of
discourses of ignorance, I will concentrate on the projected relation with science that
this talk constructs. In other words, I do not treat the talk of the respondents as
directed to the interviewer alone; rather, the talk also, quasi-conversationally and
over the interviewer's head so to speak, addresses science or scientists. That is, we
can read the talk of respondents as containing elements of a negotiation with science
in which the relative knowledge levels, the right to speak about science and the
relevance of particular knowledge domains is, in a highly compressed way, articu-
lated. To put it another way, people are defining domains of authority for different
kinds of knowledge in relation to themselves, hence articulating (at least in part)
 114 MIKE MICHAEL

social identity. More generally, we are here treating the respondents' talk as involved
in a range of conversations and whose 'interlocutors' include the interviewer, science
and scientists of various sorts, 'in-groups', and so on.27 So, the present analysis
de-emphasizes the immediate face-to-face situation, and investigates the meanings
that such talk has with respect to the relation between the speaker and wider, physi-
cally absent audiences (for example, scientists).
To illustrate and explore some of these social meanings of discourses of ignorance,
I draw upon three pieces of fieldwork. Semi-structured interviews about ionising
radiation were conducted in the following contexts:
A Volunteers in a Radon survey carried out by a Local Council Environmental
Health Office. Volunteers kept a small plastic Radon detector in their homes
for six months. They were also provided with a sheet of details on Radon
and the rationale behind the survey. Twenty-four interviews were conducted
with self-selected volunteers several months after the detectors had been
removed for analysis.
B Interview Panel: Initially members of the public were chosen at random from
the electoral register. This led to some snowballing. Several panel members
were recruited from other groups in our research programme such as the
Radon Survey volunteers and patients attending a local hospital for X-rays.
The aim of the panel was to conduct repeat interviews and, depending upon
time of original contact and availability, panel members participated in from 4
to 1 interviews. The interviews covered not only the understanding of ionising
radiation, but also of information technology and ultrasound, and the percep-
tion of science and scientists in general.
c About 20 time-served electricians working at the Sellafield Reprocessing Plant
interviewed en masse while attending evening classes at a local college of
further education.
I make no attempt to quantify the rates or proportions of these various types of
response. The present chapter simply aims to sketch out an array of discourses in
order better to apprehend how it is people address, bracket, and articulate issues of
science and technology. It is, then, perhaps prudent to regard the discourses that
will be outlined below as ideal types.28
Before describing a number of discourses of ignorance I want first to briefly recap
on an important proviso. Although my analysis aims to unpick some of the discourses
that people can draw upon in order to construct a relation to science, these discourses
are manifested in very specific circumstances, namely the interview situation. Here,
people engage in what can be called focused articulation. Obviously, the interview is
about science, ionising radiation, and expert knowledge; people are asked to formulate
understandings of these things. It is thus important to place the centrality of these
 Ignoring science 115

issues in the appropriate wider context. I have already mentioned that in formulating
their relationship to science, lay people will be drawing on an array of identities.
Ethnographic work is necessary (see various chapters in this volume) to locate such
situated accounts, articulations, and formulations in the broader cultural landscape
and to detail how these interact with the multiplicity of other social relations in
which people are involved. Nevertheless, at the very least, the present analysis gives
a picture of the range of discursive resources that people can draw upon in this
context, and foregrounds the reflexive dimension that can inform people's overt
responses.

Discourses of ignorance
A Unconstructed absence
First, we can note that often the fact that people were manifestly lacking in specific
types of knowledge did not occasion further commentary from them. That is, no
attempt is made to discursively construct absence. Thus, in many cases, even where
they would appear to have had some direct interest, in response to questions about
ionising radiation, people would simply answer 'don't know' or 'never thought about
it'. Here, it seems that absence was only brought to people's attention by virtue of
the question, and that the absence of an answer was simply a fact of life, unworthy
of elaboration or explanation. In a way people treated absence as an irrelevance or
peripheral to their primary concerns. However, in many cases, a 'don't know' would
be followed by a request for the correct answer: 'Well what does Radon do?' or
'What are alpha particles?' This suggests that the deficit or absence is recognised
and the interviewer used as a potential source of information. Absence here is linked
to the opportunity to rectify; indeed, the subsequent question is used to preempt
an impression of uninterest, lack of curiosity, indolence, or whatever. The implication
is that for some unspecified reason or circumstance the interviewee has been unable
to seek out this information. Here, then, the exposed ignorance does have some
significance for the respondent. Absence is implicitly demarcated in this instance by
use of requests for information; these in turn signify that the self is, at the very least,
an interested and responsible 'member of the public'. In the following examples, I
will look at the way that absence is explicitly constructed.

B 'Ignorance' and mental constitution

In some cases, absence is recognised as an entrenched, global scientific 'ignorance',
as a 'not-knowing', a lack of education. It might be the case that this is used as a
defensive strategy in the course of the interview to avoid responsibility for specific
perceived mistakes. For example:
 I l 6 MIKE MICHAEL

(A)

I: Any idea why it [Radon] should bubble up, rather than things like carbon dioxide . . .

AW: Probably a light gas, just a gas . . .

I: I'm not su~~ it does actually . . . [Laughter].

AW: Oh yeah . . . My knowledge of science is zero . . .

(Radon: AW. 31)

Later on this participant, a museum director, goes on to describe how he thinks

Radon is detected through the magnification of fission tracks in perspex contained
in the monitoring devices. He mentions that he knows about fission track data analy-
sis through archaeology - yet his 'knowledge of science is zero'. It seems to me that
here there is a bracketing of scientific knowledge as 'other'. The knowledge that this
speaker possesses cannot conceivably (in his own estimation) be science. It might be
the case that he considers his knowledge insufficiently detailed or arcane to count
as science (and perhaps here he is drawing parallels with the criteria of archaeological
expertise which reflect similar rigour, specialism, and so on). Thus, the criteria of
what counts as scientific knowledge are so strict that he is not able to aspire to them.
However, in this instance there is only an indirect ascription to self. In contrast,
other speakers' meta-commentaries upon their knowledge entail a characterisation of
self, namely the lack of scientific mind. Thus:
(B)

Do you think of it [Radon] as er . -. . as er rays or gas?

LG Erm . . . gas . . . probably . . .

Any idea how it gets produced in the ground?

LG No idea . . . [laughs]

Have a guess.

LG Erm . . . I'm not very scientifically minded . . . I don't know . . .

(Radon: LG. 25)

(Q

I: Any idea what the processes are by which this gas is created?

PC: No . . . I would imagine it's just a gas created by the natural breakdown of the various
components of the soil. I mean that's just an assumption really not . . . I'm not very
scientifically minded . . . I know there are these things happening in the earth . . .
(Radon: PC. 28)
 Ignoring science 117

(D)

Do you know what they were . . . measuring?

MC Radioactivity weren't they?

Do you know what sort?

MC No . . .

You don't and they didn't say . . .

MC I didn't know whether they . . . as I say I'm not science minded . . . technically
minded, anything like that . . . but my husband works at Great Lakes Chemical Plant

(Radon: MC. 49)

These ontological statements about the self are similar to what Halliday29 has
called in his functional grammar, relational processes that describe processes of being.
These are either intensive and take the form of such statements as 'I am not scientifi-
cally minded', or possessive such as the sentence: 'I don't have a scientific mind.'
In the present context, such responses constitute meta-commentaries or reflections
that cast doubt upon the substantive statements made about Radon and ionising
radiation: as such, they problematise the speaker's right to address these scientific
topics.
Here, the speakers are not merely differentiating themselves from science per se.
In addition, they are saying that they are constitutionally not mentally equipped to
fathom the mysteries of science - whether those be the domain of professional scien-
tists or the domain of members of a public 'scientific culture'. There is, then, a
genetic differentiation between self and science, and, further, in the context of the
interview, speakers using this discourse situate themselves in a quasi-dependent pos-
ition relative to science. Nevertheless, in stressing one's lack of scientific mind, one
can also point to one's own positive attributes or functions. In the present context,
this contrast is neatly encapsulated by a Lancaster Town Hall receptionist (Radon
Survey volunteer), who noted, when talking about scientists in the guise of Lancaster
City Council Environmental Health Officers: 'They couldn't do my job and I
couldn't do theirs.' This discourse will be elaborated below.
The relation of dependence to science is partly born of exclusion from it. While
the constitutional ignorance discourse formulates this in terms of the speaker's own
(in)capacities, in other cases exclusion can be ascribed to the nature of science. Thus,
L, a member of our interview panel in her early forties, when discussing a question-
naire question on the science-ness of various disciplines remarks: 'it's more of a
science because I know nothing about it. Physics and Chemistry, yes, it's a science
because I know nothing about it'. Here, the less insight she has into a subject, the
more science-like it is. At the very least this statement reflects her perceived status
 I l 8 MIKE MICHAEL

as an outsider. This status reappears in the reflective point that she makes: 'you see
you can also look at it [science] as to whether it's relevant and important and how
important it is depending on how scientific it is . . . [laughs]'. In this instance, L
sets up a circularity: science is important, it is science because it is important and
so on; science is being represented as a self-defining enterprise. Once again she is
situated on the outside of this hermetic world. Here, rather than simply noting one's
lack of scientific knowledge or attributing it to one's lack of scientific mind, the cause
for one's distance from science is partially to be found in the nature of science itself:
it is the hermetic, self-defining form of science that serves to exclude L.

c 'Ignorance' and the division of labour

In addition to the constitutional basis for absence, there is also a functional view of
the difference between science and other spheres of action or expertise. Absence can
here be put down to the division of labour. I will present two examples of this.
(E)

I: What's strange was when I started reading all this stuff I was dumbfounded about how
much I didn't know . . . really . . . and a lot of it is still sort of dodgy especially the
biological stuff. . . .

DM: Well, I read quite a bit of it but . . . but it's not my job.
(Panel: DM. 1.72)

The speaker in extract (E) is a statistician. He is denying the necessity to know these
things because it is not his job. This account straddles the duality of structure and
agency - of the requirements imposed by the social order on the one hand, and
personal volition on the other. There is here a dual rhetorical strategy to explain
absence: firstly, in terms of external conditions - I am not required to know this stuff;
secondly, in terms of internal, personal disposition - / don V need to know this stuff.
Thus the ambiguity of the 'role' construct, as simultaneously implying agency (or
volition) and social structure (or necessity), can be discursively exploited.
A similar strategy is instanced in the following exchanges between ourselves and
some twenty Sellafield time-served electricians. Unfortunately, conditions meant that
we could not record so the following is not guaranteed verbatim. What follows is
derived from field notes written immediately afterwards. The following talk occurred
in the context of describing what they, as electricians in the course of the daily work
procedures, needed to know about radiation. One electrician noted that: 'we're not
employed to do what the monitors do . . .'. The sole woman electrician followed this
with: 'People [i.e. the electricians and possibly other blue-collar workers] don't have
to know too much, you've got to trust someone somewhere, and they're [the health
physicists] trained for it.' Later, she added: 'If people knew too much, they would
panic in an emergency because they know just how dangerous it really was.'
 Ignoring science 119

In the former quotes, absence is formulated negatively: the absence of knowledge

is compensated for by other functionaries - specialists who possess the requisite
knowledge and use it for the benefit of the electricians. But the absence is also
formulated positively in that it serves to preclude panic under certain circumstances.
It is a good, functional thing to remain ignorant for the sake of being clear about
proper procedures.
Now this contrast and complementarity is evoked in the very particular circum-
stances of the nuclear industry. However, in a much less articulated way, people
seem to hold to the same division of labour view of their relation to science. (That
it is less articulated is hardly surprising given people's relatively impoverished contact
with scientists.) For example, in our Radon Survey sample, the complementarity
between scientists (environmental health officers) and volunteers was framed around
the common goal of 'doing good'. That is to say, the scientists (with whom the
volunteers had little contact) and the interviewees-cum-volunteers were functioning
together (I hesitate to say working together) to conduct a survey of Radon levels in
Lancaster and its environs for the general good. Thus the common goal bound
scientist and layperson together as a collaborative unit; the function of the volunteer
was as a sort of guinea pig or perhaps as concerned citizen - there was no reason
to go beyond this in the sense of finding out about Radon and its properties even
if there was a Radon measuring device sitting in one's living-room for six months.
Superficially, the measuring device might appear to be an irresistible stimulus to go
and find out more about Radon, even if the knowledge gained was at best elementary.
However, in the context of a division of labour, the device came to signify or sym-
bolize one's passive role as volunteer - it spurred the volunteer actually not to find
out. Indeed, it was remarkable how many of the volunteers, though they expressed
to us an interest in finding out more, in practical terms made little if any effort to
seek out information on Radon and the issues surrounding it.30
The positive formulation of absence is also present in the final broad discourse
of ignorance: here, rather than attribute absence to constitutional disposition or to
role/function, it can be ascribed to deliberate choice.

D 'Ignorance' as a deliberate choice

In some cases scientific knowledge is bracketed, ignored, jettisoned or avoided
because it is essentially peripheral to, or may even obscure, the real issue. Here,
'ignorance' is constructed as a deliberate choice.
In one panel interview, the respondent, DM, characterised scientists as 'people
who have an incredible faith in science'. When subsequently asked whether he
thought radiation can have any good effects, he remarked, 'There must be one or
two, but I can't be bothered thinking about them.' This self-imposed limitation on
knowledge-seeking also emerges in extract (F). Just prior to this passage, the conver-
 120 MIKE MICHAEL

sation has been about the various types of radiation and subatomic particles. Then
the interviewer asks how X-rays fit into the discussion. The interviewee replies:
BW: I'm not sure . . . I know that the net effect of the whole damn lot is that if you get an
overdose it's curtains and I don't really need to know any more.
(Panel: BW. 1.335)

In both these cases there is a reason for not knowing more: extra knowledge is
redundant, or a distraction from the central issue - that radiation is dangerous. It
seems that knowledge of the processes and uses of ionising radiation is represented
as of marginal relevance. The 'ignorance' or deficit is no longer a state, but a positive
choice. We have seen that the state of 'ignorance', signalled by the lack of a scientific
mind, suggests subordination to science as a good or perhaps unavoidable authority.
We have also noted that 'ignorance', as a corollary of the division of labour, implies
a social and practical functionality and a collaborative relationship with science. In
the present instance the apparent choice to curtail scientific knowledge is part of an
effort to maintain social independence from science and, possibly, to challenge the
authority of interests using 'science'. This is noteworthy because critique is conduc-
ted by changing the register of the debate: it is no longer a question of working
through scientific arguments to find a different truth, rather, science is irrelevant -
rendered peripheral to, indeed occluding, the real issues at stake. This contrasts with
Smithson's view that 'intended ignorance usually performs defensive social func-
tions'.31 While this can undoubtedly be the case, in the present instance we have a
rhetoric of intentional 'ignorance' being mobilised to challenge or attack the relevance
of a given body of expert knowledge to the 'real' issue at stake as perceived by the
speaker.
This discourse of ignorance also contrasts with a more obvious antagonistic pos-
ture toward science which directly challenges the interests behind a given type of
scientific knowledge. For example, one of our Radon Survey Volunteer sample
applied this type of discourse to the issue of why Radon had recently become so
interesting:
(G)

JM: I don't really know why they're having such a push on a national survey. It's the
fashion to do surveys on radiation because it's a popular issue. People like yourself and
people in science can go and get doctorates . . . you'll certainly never cure background
radiation, it's just job creation . . .
(Radon: JM. 78)

Here, the scepticism reflects this speaker's status as an ex-physics graduate who
confidently believes that Radon is essentially a non-issue. The self-ascribed expert
knowledge about the status of Radon both in itself and relative to what he considers
 Ignoring science 121

to be more urgent problems such as overhead power lines, allows him to be sceptical
about the Radon survey. In seeking out reasons for it, he settles, perhaps ironically,
upon job creation. Our second example shows the speaker formulate the Radon issue
as a deliberate distraction from the central issue of the danger of the nuclear industry:
(H)

I: What do you think of as natural sources [of radiation]?

PD: The sun . . . em . . . you which is . . . em you know . . . which is dangerous but we're
living on this planet and er have our ionospheres and our stratospheres and all these
things which appear to protect us so we can get the benefits of it without the dangers
of it. Well one of the natural radiations which . . . radioactive substances which the
industry's jumped on recently is this Radon gas which is naturally occurring so that
they can divert people's attention from them so that they can say 'Oh look, well you
know, we will be able to seal . . . [nuclear waste products].
(Panel: PD. 1.372)

Here, it is advanced that the Radon survey is not simply a survey - but has
specific political spin-offs for the nuclear industry. That is, he has placed the Radon
issue in a larger context - it has become a resource for the nuclear industry and as
such is to be condemned. Indeed, it is almost as if Radon as an issue has been
constructed by bad science (science with suspect interests). Against this view, the
speaker deploying an ignorance-as-choice discourse was questioning the usefulness
of knowing scientific detail for broader political questions. The texture of science,
the minutiae, the arcane - all these only obscure the real (political) issues. Here, to
assimilate specific scientific knowledge (for example, about ionising radiation) would
be to assimilate a particular (inferred) set of social interests and values which are
anathema (as opposed to merely beyond one's capacity or role).

Concluding remarks
Table 5.1 summarises the three types of discourse that 'package' absence. In each
case we have picked out the projected social relations between expert and speaker.
The use of particular discourses of ignorance to account for manifest absence of
knowledge sets up a relation to science in which the latter comes to be contrastively
constructed.
As I have already noted, the last column entails a particular reading of the dis-
courses of ignorance that situates them as resources used to fashion a relation to
science. However, as the differences with Smithson's analysis of the use of volitional
'ignorance' throw into relief,32 there is no invariant connection between a discourse
and its function. These types of discourse of ignorance can be used in very different
ways to evoke rather different relations to science. For example, discourses that
 122 MIKE MICHAEL

Table 5.1 A typology of discourses of ignorance

Discursive form Status Lay/science relation
Non-scientific mind Mental constitution Subservience/dependence
Not my job Division of labour Coexistence /co-operation
Not interested/relevant Deliberate choice Moral/political challenge

construct 'ignorance' in terms of division of labour need not necessarily imply peace-
ful coexistence or co-operation between the different roles. We see this in the ways
that Cumbrian sheep-farmers - as discussed in Chapter One - construed their role
in relation to the scientists of the Ministry of Agriculture, Fisheries and Food.33 As
we have seen above, the Sellafield electricians could identify a specific overarching
goal that bound them to the scientists and health physicist (i.e. the smooth running
of the plant), and this overarching goal could be served by 'ignorance' of irrelevant
knowledge. By comparison, the sheep-farmers saw their relation with MAFF scien-
tists as structured by goals that were much more ambiguous. On the one hand, they
were clearly aware that both they and the scientists shared the common goal of
monitoring and reducing radiation levels. On the other hand, they perceived that
the scientists were systematically devaluing the farmers' local knowledge; indeed, the
scientists were seen as pursuing the factional goal of protecting their own expertise
and superiority. Here, the farmers' local knowledge was being constructed by the
scientists as 'ignorance' for purposes of status, power, or whatever. The division of
labour discourse comes to take a more cynical cast in which antagonistic power
relations come to be identified.
To reiterate the general point, discourses of ignorance can each play a variety of
roles in the construction of a social relationship to science. The types of discourse
of ignorance that I have described reflect the means by which people can tacitly
reflect on, and articulate, their social relationship to science and its institutions. This
chapter has attempted to put such discourses upon the agenda of research into the
public understanding of science and technology. To raise this issue is nevertheless
to remain circumspect about the centrality of such reflection. We do not claim that
the reflections (upon ignorance and absence) that we have documented are regular
events in people's daily lives. However, we do contend that they are resources: people
can, when necessary, reflect upon the status of their knowledge and their relations
to science for a variety of purposes.
Moreover, the resources upon which people draw reflect and mediate their broader
social identities: the sheep-farmers, the electricians, the secretary all have at their
disposal a variety of representations of themselves as particular sorts of persons. We
have suggested that the encounter with scientific knowledge, in this instance
 Ignoring science 123

occasioned by our interviews, provides a setting in which people perforce reflect on

the epistemological status of their knowledge. In the process, our participants draw
upon their social identities to resource their understanding of their own understand-
ings, and of their relation to scientific knowledge and its institutions. However, I
suggest that this is not a simple one-way process. Science is not, even in this context,
simply an opportunity for a rehearsal of self: it also serves as an 'Other' against which
these social identities can be delineated - that is, both 'worked out' and 'worked at'.
Further, given the ambiguous character of science - at once monolithic and non-
unitary, radically 'Other' and incorporated into the modernist self,34 science in its
various forms can begin to impact upon and potentially affect those social identities.
To get at these dynamics of rehearsal, delineation, and development of social
identity in relation to science would require more textured, immersed, and
longitudinal study.
In sum, in contrast to those research efforts - 'knowledge description approaches',
as I have called them - which more often than not end up as mere catalogues of
stereotypes, errors, or deficits, the present analysis, within the limits specified above,
has explored how the social construction of science proceeds through the contrast
to self (for example, one's own 'ignorance'). In the process, what emerges is the
implicit discursive formulation of the relations of power between self and science.
When people reflect upon their ignorance of (scientific) knowledge, they reveal their
knowledge of ignorance and its social uses.

NOTES

1. 'Ignorance' is placed within inverted commas because I would like to bracket any negative
or denigratory connotations that it carries. I do not use inverted commas for the phrase
discourses of ignorance because, as I argue, these are used by participants precisely to
construct the moral or political status of their 'ignorance'.
2. Bodmer, W., The Public Understanding of Science (London: Royal Society, 1985).
3. Ibid., 12.
4. Beveridge, A. A. and Rudell, F., 'An evaluation of "public attitudes toward science and
technology" in science indicators: the 1985 report', Public Opinion Quarterly, 52 (1988), 374-
85-
5. Durant, J. R., Evans, G. A. and Thomas, G. P., 'The public understanding of science',
Nature, 340, (6 July 1989), 11-14. Also see Evans, G. and Durant, J., 'The understanding
of science in Britain and the USA', British Social Attitudes: special international report, edited
by R. Jowell, S. Witherspoon, and L. Brook (Aldershot: Gower/Social and Community
Planning Research).
6. Wynne, B., 'Knowledge, interests and utility', paper presented at The Science Policy
Support Group Workshop, Lancaster University, 1988.
7. The continued currency of this approach in academic circles should not be doubted. See,
for example, Bodmer, W. and Wilkins, J., 'Research to improve the public understanding
programmes', Public Understanding of Science 1 (1992) 7-10; and Miller, J. D., 'Towards a
124 MIKE MICHAEL

scientific understanding of the public understanding of science and technology', Public

Understanding of Science, i (1992) 23-6.
8. For example, S. Moscovici, 'On social representations', Social Cognition, edited by J. P.
Forgas (London: Academic Press, 1981); Moscovici, S., 'The phenomenon of social
representations', Social Representations, edited by R. M. Farr and S. Moscovici (Cambridge
University Press, 1984).
9. Markova, I. and Wilkie, P., 'Representations, concepts and social change: the phenomenon
of AIDS', Journal for the Theory of Social Behaviour 17 (1987) 389-409.
10. Herzlich, C , Health and Illness: a social psychological analysis (London: Academic Press,
1973).
11. Roiser, M., 'Commonsense, science and public opinion', Journal for the Theory of Social
Behaviour 17 (1987) 411-32.
12. Galli, I. and Nigro, G., 'The social representation of radioactivity among Italian children',
Social Science Information 26 (1987) 535-49.
13. McCloskey, M., 'Naive theories of motion', Mental Model, edited by D. Gentner and A. L.
Stevens (Hillsdale, N. J.: Lawrence Erlbaum, 1983).
14. Gentner D. and Gentner, D. R., 'Flowing waters or teeming crowds. Mental models of
electricity', in Gentner and Stevens, ibid.
15. Kempton W., 'Two theories of home heat control', Cultural Models in Language and
Thought, edited by D. Holland and N. Quinn (Cambridge University Press, 1987).
16. Collins A. and Gentner D., 'How people construct mental models', Cultural Models in
Language and Thought, edited by D. Holland and N. Quinn (Cambridge University Press,
1987)
17. Quinn N. and Holland, D., 'Cultural models in language and thought: an introduction', in
Holland and Quinn, ibid., note 15.
18. Quinn, N., 'Convergent evidence for a cultural model of American marriage', in Holland
and Quinn, ibid., note 15.
19. Holland, D. and Skinner, D., 'Prestige and intimacy: the cultural models behind American
talk about gender types', in Holland and Quinn, ibid., note 15.
20. D'Andrade, R., 'A folk model of the mind', in Holland and Quinn, ibid., note 15.
21. Ravetz, J. R. 'Uncertainty, ignorance and policy', Science for Public Policy, edited by H.
Brooks and C. L. Cooper (Oxford: Pergamon, 1987).
22. Ibid., 82.
23. Smithson, M., 'Toward a social theory of ignorance', Journal for the Theory of Social
Behaviour 15 (1985) 152-72. Quote, p. 154.
24. Ibid., 154.
25. For example, Potter, J. and Wetherell, M., Discourse and Social Psychology (London: Sage,
1987); Gilbert G. N. and Mulkay, M., Opening Pandora's Box: A Sociological Analysis of
Scientists' Discourse (Cambridge University Press, 1984).
26. Wetherell, M. and Potter, J., 'Narrative characters and accounting for violence', Texts of
Identity, edited by J. Shorter and K. J. Gergen (London: Sage, 1989).
27. The function of discourse in the broader ideological or institutional context has been
investigated by numerous authors. For instance, the impact of more distant contexts, such
as institutional fiscal constraint, upon discourse has been considered in education. For
example, see Mehan, H., 'Language and power in organisational process', Discourse Processes
10, 291-301. Such studies demonstrate how talk addresses the immediate face-to-face
circumstances and the specific conditions of distal contexts. I will not be examining the
 Ignoring science 125

sociological status of these contexts. This issue has been brilliantly crystallised in
Knorr-Cetina, K., 'The micro-social order: towards a reconception', Action and Structure:
research methods and social theory, edited by N. G. Fielding (London: Sage, 1988). In the
present context, I will treat talk about 'ignorance' as if it is being conversationally directed
to the distal audiences that comprise science.
28. As a methodological tool the notion of the ideal type has the advantage of allowing the
analyst to abstract from otherwise unruly data some sort of essence. Any such abstraction is
necessarily hedged with the proviso that it is a partial fabrication. None the less, in the
present circumstances, the value of the ideal types as a heuristic is taken to outweigh their
status as fictions. For the classic formulation of the ideal type, see Weber, M., The
Methodology of the Social Sciences (New York: Free Press, 1949). An excellent critique of the
ideal type is provided in Parkin, F., N[ax Weber (Chichester: Ellis Harwood, 1982).
29. Halliday, M. A. K., An Introduction to Functional Grammar (London: Edward Arnold, 1985).
30. For a more detailed account of the division of labour between science and self, see Michael,
M., 'Lay discourses of science: science-in-general, science-in-particular and self, Science,
Technology and Human Values 17 (1992) 313-33.
31. Smithson, ibid., note 24, 156.
32. Ibid.
33- Wynne, B., Williams, P., and Williams, J., 'Cumbrian hill-farmers' views of scientific
advice'. Evidence presented to The House of Commons Select Committee on Agriculture
Investigating The Chernobyl Disaster and the Effects of Radioactive Fallout on the UK
published in the Agricultural Select Committee Report, Chernobyl: the Government's
Response, vol. 2: Minutes of Evidence (London: HMSO, 1988); Michael, M. and Wynne, B.,
'Misunderstanding and myth: the case of radiation', paper presented at the Annual Meeting
of the British Association, Sheffield, 1989.
34. For example, each of the following authors have highlighted the relation of science to social
identity: Holton, G., 'How to think about the anti-science phenomenon', Public
Understanding of Science 1 (1992) 103-28; Giddens, A., Modernity and Self-Identity
(Cambridge: Polity, 1991); Beck, U., Risk Society (London: Sage, 1992). However, none
examine this relation in the close empirical detail that it deserves.
 6 Insiders and outsiders: identifying experts
on home ground
ROSEMARY McKECHNIE

Expertise in context
The public understanding of science is situated in a changing theoretical landscape.
Debates about modernity, post-modernity, and globalism are throwing into question
significant conceptual categories that social science has previously taken for granted.
In this flux, the relationship between science, technology, and publics has become a
central concern of social theory. Western society is depicted as increasingly depen-
dent on specialised roles and institutions that are associated with specialised knowl-
edges and competences. Accordingly, theoretical frameworks are being developed
that allocate key roles to concepts relating to perceptions of risk, dependence on
expert systems, and trust.1 Within these debates the 'local' has assumed a new sig-
nificance in constituting identity-based responses. However, empirical studies of the
relationship between the local and wider society are sparse. This chapter is based on
ethnographic research, focusing on local interpretations of expertise relating to ionis-
ing radiation in the Isle of Man. It examines the social and cultural interpretations
of science that emerge from the mundane transactions of people in 'micro-social'
situations. This approach is in tune with what Knorr-Cetina calls methodological
situationalism, which 'demands that descriptively adequate accounts of large-scale
social phenomena be grounded in statements about actual social behaviour in concrete
situations' (1988: 22).
In the following pages I describe how authoritative knowledges associated with
science are assumed, attributed, and evaluated in practice, within both lay contexts
and institutional settings on the Isle of Man. It is proposed that there are many
similarities in the ways expertise is constituted in 'informal' and 'formal' settings,
and that drawing boundaries between the two is far from straightforward. The aim
is to show that the assumption or attribution of expertise is a fluid process of identi-
fication and negotiation based on the 'ground rules' of cultural settings. The Isle of
 Insiders and outsiders 127

Man may be a unique 'locality', but the processes defining the fracture lines between
science and the heterogeneous Manx population, which this chapter explores, echo
significant themes found in other chapters of this book. According validity to lay-
groups' theoretical structures, and examining how these are realised in action,
together present a critical challenge to analytical boundaries drawn between publics,
institutions, and science. Rather than taking as a starting-point a line that divides
'science' from the rest of society, the aim here is to put science back into its cultural
and social settings, where everyone, scientist, and layperson alike, is actively partici-
pating in the processes of identification that create boundaries and give substance to
powerful concepts such as 'expertise'.
'The expert' has come to play an increasingly important social role. However, we
know very little about the basis of the credibility of expertise.2 Understanding how
'experts' are identified, what 'expertise' means, and how it is related to the structures
that underpin society, requires close observation of 'expertise' in action, in practical
situations. One aim of this chapter is to show that setting 'the public' in context is
a necessary first step. The empirical focus of this chapter is not on how an issue
brings science into conflict with a community, but, on how, within one definitional
context, processes of identification maintaining internal and external cultural bound-
aries in the face of social and political changes, have important consequences for local
interpretations of expertise and authority. Concepts such as 'public', 'science', or
'expertise' are social achievements, subject to differing and competing definitions.
The fluid boundaries which define and oppose 'science' and 'publics' are constantly
shifting, dissolving, and reappearing. Science and publics are situated not in oppo-
sition to each other in a vacuum, but in a complex of relationships.

Locality and identity: Manx and comeover

The Isle of Man provided an interesting location for research into public interpret-
ations of ionising radiation. The island is something of a constitutional oddity.3 It
is also relatively self-contained institutionally. Manx political specificity is strongly
defended by the governmental body, Tynwald. Issues that lead to clashes with the
UK are important; each can be viewed as a negotiation of the island's status. Some
are economic — transport is particularly difficult — others concern moral issues such
as birching or legislation concerning homosexuality. Environmental issues provide
another field in which the negotiation of control and sovereignty can take place.
These included debates on how the island could be brought into line with European
and UK environmental directives, but the impact of external pollution on local
environments was also a worry. Practically, its location in the Irish sea, near the
Sellafield reprocessing plant and Heysham nuclear power station on the English
coast, meant that the issues discussed by Wynne in Chapter One were topical there,
 128 ROSEMARY McKECHNIE

including the restrictions on sheep-farming. Unlike other areas where public

responses to such issues have been studied,4 the population was not employed by, or
dependent upon, the nuclear industry. The geographical distance involved, though
slight, was reinforced by important political and symbolic boundaries. There was
concern on the island about radioactive pollution, particularly emissions into the
Irish sea. The position adopted by Tynwald, calling on the UK government to put
pressure on the Sellafield reprocessing plant to reduce emissions to zero, was modi-
fied after a popular petition was presented to Tynwald calling for debate on the issue,
and increased disquiet after Chernobyl. In 1986 Tynwald called for the closure of
Sellafield and was, at the time this research was carried out (during 1988), on the
point of producing a document clarifying its views on the UK nuclear industry as a
whole.5
The symbolic boundaries based on the legislative differences which set the island
apart were reinforced by issues that bring the island into conflict with the UK.
However, insular social space was also demarcated by boundaries which were in the
process of redefinition. The island has been a tax haven since 1961. As a result the
financial sector has come to dominate the island's economy. The industrial sector
remains undeveloped, and tourism, of primary importance until recently, is failing.
The fiscal changes have had far-reaching repercussions. The accelerating depopu-
lation of the 1950s has been reversed, and fears have been expressed about the growth
in population in terms of over-development and the inadequacy of the island's ameni-
ties. Since the influx of new residents has been controlled by work permits, most
permanent new residents are either professionals or wealthy. There is some friction,
partly because native Manx people have been hit by failures in the non-financial
sectors of the economy and property market inflation.6
In local parlance, the UK is talked of as 'across', and incomers are known either
as 'comeovers' or 'stopovers', depending on how long they are perceived to have
lived on the island. There is not room here to go into the complexities of the
incomer/insular relationship, though the distinction is important and will be touched
on later. The opposition of Manx and 'comeover' is central to representations of life
on the island. This stereotypical opposition 'glosses over' differences in both groups.
The varied incomer population is more clearly differentiated than the Manx com-
munity. While, for the Manx, diversity makes the community,7 new residents form
a less cohesive group. People coming to the island are placed principally by their
socio-economic bracket. Some who have lived on the island for a time, particularly
those who work, are integrated into the local community to a greater or lesser extent.
However, the question of being Manx or not arises still, and, as I will touch on later,
is highlighted by any discussion of local issues. Though I am concerned with cultural
identity in this chapter, this should not be taken to mean that I am looking at the
Manx as a homogeneous population, or 'real' Manx in isolation. Rather, I am con-
 Insiders and outsiders 129

cerned with the way that people living on the island are, from different viewpoints,
engaged in definitional activity which creates and elaborates significant local bound-
aries, with profound consequences for issues that enter into the island's definitionary
field.

Ethnography and science: some methodological questions

Ethnography entails taking note of much that does not immediately seem relevant,
through getting to know people, and how they relate to each other and oneself. As
Becher has noted, the distinguishing feature of anthropological research is that it is
about experience rather than gathering data: 'for anthropologists methodology is
the internal apprehension of relationships and their transformation through cultural
meaning' (1989: 39). Interview situations are artificial. It might be contended that
this is particularly true when the subject of the interview is science. As Michael
notes in Chapter Five, respondents are not just talking to the interviewer, but are in
a situation in which they are addressing science. What they do not say in their presen-
tation is an important facet of how they work with ideas about science and their
relationship to science. Denial of knowledge and refusal to participate by answering,
can be positive strategies to protect personal identity. This ethnography was con-
ceived of as complementary to the discourse approach of Michael. The common
starting-point is not individuals' lack of knowledge about scientific 'facts' or pro-
cesses, but how people reflect on the status of their own knowledge and situate
themselves vis a vis science and vis a vis others in relation to science. Unravelling
the way self-definition frames a relationship between individuals, groups and 'science'
uncovers how 'ignorance' rests on not only structures of difference, but also relations
of dependence, co-operation, or challenge: relations of power. The ethnographic
material used is similar to the interviews analysed by Michael in many respects, but,
rather than focusing on individual constructions, ethnography locates accounts in the
context of the multiplicity of other social relations in which people are involved.
Ethnographic methods have successfully been used in the context of the laboratory
to dissect the way scientific meaning and authority are constructed.8 Outside the
laboratory, science may play only a small part in people's lives. Their perceptions of
science cannot be divorced from their perceptions of the complex web of social and
institutional relations in which it is embedded. Studying lay interpretations of science
in their own terms decentres science. In a context where the particular domain of
science under scrutiny, ionising radiation, evokes almost universal denial of knowl-
edge, there is often nothing but 'the social' to study. As Callon has pointed out, the
interpretations of sociologists of science have been marked by a curious asymmetry,
their willingness to accord equal validity to all actors views of nature and scientific/
technical theory has not extended to actors views about society:
 130 ROSEMARY McKECHNIE

[they] act as though this agnosticism towards natural science and technology were not
applicable towards society as well. For them nature is uncertain, but Society is not . . .
Both the identity and the respective importance of actors are at issue in the development
of controversies, and ignoring the fact that identities of actors are problematic risks
badly distorting the situation. (1986, 197)

The approach taken here has much in common with what Callon has termed 'a
sociology of translation'.9 However, anthropologists have noted that the perennial
problem of 'translation' from one cultural system of meaning to another is no less
pressing within the confines of one's own language. Here, the researcher shares
assumptions with those being studied, and, like them, takes for granted the meaning
of significant categories.10 A further point arises in relation to the aim of giving an
unweighted account of different actors' views of the world.11 While it is desirable
to dislodge science and social science from a privileged position, this aim should not
sidestep efforts to place interpretations within a framework that recognises structures
of power that exist independently of any discourse about them.12 This implies the
recognition of structures that both frame the context of research, and the relationship
between subjects and researchers. The approach adopted here does not give pre-
cedence to scientific interpretations of events, but examines the processes that lend
authority to 'expertise', focusing on how these are created and recreated in a variety
of social relations. Latour (1986) urges social scientists to follow science out into the
world. Here I take a different path by following science from the world, tracing its
path partway back. The assumption is that science, and its practitioners, are not the
only, and perhaps not the principal, actors involved in the social construction of
scientific authority. It is not a one-way process. The whole of society participates
in identifying 'science' and 'expertise', as it does in the identification of any important
symbolic boundary.13

Local knowledges: identifying local expertise

When describing the aims of our research to people on the island, I left the param-
eters of definition as wide as possible. Amongst other things I was interested in
finding out what ionising radiation meant to people (if anything) in local terms. It
was almost universally assumed that my research must be concerned with radioactive
pollution, and this was further condensed to relate to two main issues: Sellafield's
discharges in the Irish sea and Chernobyl fall-out. These were recognised as 'import-
ant' issues for the island, and almost everyone could refer to items of news in the local
media.14 Any further probing usually resulted in statements of denial of knowledge.
However, unlike the responses given in interviews, these denials were accompanied
by suggestions about who did have knowledge about the subject. People were sur-
prised that I should want to talk to them; what they did know, and what they
 Insiders and outsiders 131

assumed I wanted to know, was who could give me an authoritative account of issues
relating to radiation on the island. They were, in effect, giving me access to a shared,
local mapping of expertise. In the following pages I describe how individuals' relation
to science were grounded in social relationships, treating this map as a schematised
network of the significant relational structures through which science is interpreted.
The aim is to render explicit the processes that identified 'expertise' in local terms,
examining the ways in which specialised knowledges were constructed and evaluated
as trustworthy and authoritative.
This analysis is mainly concerned with a network of knowledge common to the
whole island, but before examining this I would first like to consider the more proxi-
mal mapping of knowledge within the village where I lived. The processes involved
in identifying and evaluating those who had relevant knowledge are similar to those
at work in the wider context of the island as a whole. Some of those whose views
I was encouraged to solicit predictably held positions of authority within the com-
munity, such as local politicians, religious leaders, and the headmaster. Others were
less obvious, for instance the local fishmonger. He was often asked whether the fish
he sold were likely to be affected by the radioactive pollution of the Irish sea. His
customers wanted to know if fish had been landed on the west side of the Island,
or Ramsey in the east (from where Sellafield is visible). His responses knitted
together his own practical knowledge about the fishing patterns of the boats, the
movement of fish shoals, and Irish sea currents, with some elementary physics con-
cerning heavy elements. His practical knowledge was respected, and his standing as
a local who had steadily built up his own business enhanced the authority of his
statements. He epitomised good 'common sense'.
The inhabitants of this tightly knit village shared a detailed body of common
knowledge identifying each individual. The process of identification was dynamic,
and what was known about others was constantly under revision. The views that
people expressed could be interpreted in light of prior knowledge about them, and
at the same time added to the pool of knowledge that identified them within the
community. The authority to speak about any issue was allocated on the basis of a
number of factors related to established local status and personal experience. This
authority was evaluated in terms of several significant dimensions; general knowledge,
intelligence, and presentational skills were balanced with participation in local issues
and specific local knowledges. The one factor that appeared of little consequence in
this context was scientific knowledge. Indeed, those villagers I had been directed
towards as sources of information were themselves very modest about the limits of
their scientific knowledge, though they were more forthcoming with their views
about the social and political aspects of these issues on the island. They, like everyone
else, advised me to speak to others who 'really knew' about the issues.
The individuals identified as 'local experts' within the mapping of knowledge that
 132 ROSEMARY McKECHNIE

covered the whole island were a varied group. They included public figures such as
politicians and government officials, as well as a few individuals who were perceived
as having taken an active role in shaping Manx legislation relating to the British
nuclear industry. Three MHKs (elected representatives: Members of the House of
Keys) were pointed out to me by people as 'the MHK I should talk to about radi-
ation'. One of these had entered politics through interest in environmental issues
when living away from the island, and another had a scientific background and was
vocal in debates about local environmental projects. The third was rather different,
a local sheep-farmer himself, he had created controversy by defying post-Chernobyl
restrictions and was very vocal in his opposition to Sellafield. In addition, the activist
who organised the petition that was presented to Tynwald in 1984, leading to the
debate that resulted in the 'close Sellafield down' policy, was well known and had
acquired the nickname 'Sellafield Sue'. It was she, rather than government officials,
to whom many people turned immediately for reassurance and advice when they
heard that the cloud of Chernobyl fallout had passed over the island. All of these
people could be seen as laying claim to specialised knowledge in the way that they
had made public their views.
The popular association of these figures with the issues might give the impression
that the insular population accepted their authority. Nothing could be further from
the truth. Very few recommendations were given to me without some further remarks
being made about the individuals concerned. These had little to do with science or
radiation, but generally were of a personal nature. Many of these remarks could be
categorised as 'gossip', relating to the personal lives of public figures. They concerned
allegations about honesty, dependability, and sexuality. These straightforward, and
sometimes damning, moral evaluations were drawn from a reservoir of 'common
knowledge' which could be used to frame these figures' views on any subject. Other
remarks reflected on their effectiveness on more familiar ground. The authority of
one official, for example, was undermined because he had sponsored the showing of
a video on farm accidents at local schools. It was said that this had been unwise
since it had scared some of the children half to death. In a professional capacity
failed business ventures signalled lack of judgement or competence: 'He's had several
things on the go in the last few years, none of them came to anything.' Similarly:
'If he can't make a decent pizza how can you trust what he has to say about the
nuclear industry?' Scientific knowledge played a relatively unimportant role in the
credibility of these figures. Their status as 'expert' was judged in terms of their
integrity and competence in day-to-day life.
There is a tendency within research concerning pjublic responses to scientific issues
to dismiss as irrelevant moral evaluations of persons and institutions. As Callon
(1986: 198) has pointed out: 'sociologists tend to censor selectively the actors when
they speak of themselves, their allies, their adversaries, or social backgrounds'. How-
 Insiders and outsiders 133

ever, the powerful role that such information can play in the evaluation of an agent
as someone who can be trusted and respected in important decision-making is not
limited to the politics of 'face-to-face communities', but can be found in many
decision-making arenas, and even in the heart of scientific institutions themselves.15
This 'framing' of those claiming authoritative knowledge made explicit the sig-
nificant dimensions of local evaluations. One factor that came up frequently in
descriptions of public figures were development projects that were the focus of local
debate over the future of the tourist industry. One local group I talked to, for
instance, insisted that we should go to a local hotel that was threatened by a large
development project to discuss the issues relating to radiation. Several public figures
who were associated with environmental issues were also vocal in the debate concern-
ing this development. The group wanted to draw parallels with the way these figures
viewed the destruction of the hotel, which was situated on a beautiful spot popular
with local people, and their views about the environment. The position of one figure
in particular, who had decried local opposition to Sellafield as based on irrational
fears and ignorance of the science involved, was compared with his support of the
new development. His commitment to 'progress' at the cost of changing the local
environment was presented to me as antithetical to local values.
This description of the way 'expertise' was identified within the Manx context
and embodied in social relationships shows trust and authority to be heavily contin-
gent. The possession of scientific knowledge did not appear to carry much weight
in the evaluation of expertise, but was overshadowed by perceptions of personal
integrity, and effectiveness in local issues. However, scientific knowledge was not
just being ignored, rather it was engaged with in an oblique way. The next section
looks at how the framework that grounded interpretations of expertise firmly in local
issues and relations, also provided a basis for undermining the structures that set
science apart.

Common sense: drawing the lines

One of the most important factors involved in local evaluation of those perceived as
possessing 'expertise' was the style in which claims to authoritative knowledge were
made: the way views were presented, rather than the views themselves. Commenting
on the MHK with a doctorate, one person said: 'Doctorate in what I wonder, I'm
always suspicious of people who use titles, especially when they are not relevant.'
Here a claim to authority based on external, 'objective', professional credentials was
being challenged by local conventions of self-presentation. Individuals are credited
with authority and respect only if their self-presentation is consistent with local
values. Any sort of assertion of authority in terms of esoteric knowledge is dangerous
and often leads to loss of reputation rather than the reverse.
 134 ROSEMARY McKECHNIE

Expressing any claim to superiority is a dangerous business on the Isle of Man.

Egalitarianism - 'we're all the same here' - is common in tightly bound communities,
even in the face of obvious inequalities of wealth, education, or professional status.
The shared commitment to this ideal is achieved by sanctions that undermine any
claims which threaten the group's value-system. The use of such sanctions was
pointed out to me frequently as a typical Manx trait.16 The way this process works
within the Manx community is encapsulated by the derogatory label 'when P. Those
who have been 'away', who boast of their successes or experiences, or who dare to
reflect negatively on island life are dismissed as 'When IV, shortened from the
phrase, 'When I was in . . .'. Status and knowledge gained elsewhere are put in their
place in local terms. Reputations are made and destroyed by common recognition
of this value-system, but those who are not familiar with it, or who fail to read the
signs, can remain happily oblivious to the fact that they are considered fools. In the
insular Manx community plain speaking is positively valued. Presentations in difficult
or esoteric language are frowned on as 'airs and graces', and the speaker dismissed
as arrogant. This re-evaluation in local terms is, in effect, a reversal of the dominant
(and on the face of it unchallenged) position of educated and scientific idioms. The
rhetorical power of science is deflated and 'ordinary' language assumes a pre-eminent
normative position within the defining bounds of local culture.
One particular set of people identified as possessing specialist knowledge in
relation to radiation gained credibility in these terms. Sellafield's discharges in the
Irish sea and the contamination of sheep pasture by Chernobyl fall-out were con-
sidered to affect two groups in particular: farmers and fishermen. The insular Manx
population identified a few key individuals as representatives of these groups. All of
them had earned their due respect over the years. They were not presented to me
as having a particular view, nor were they known to have particular knowledge of
the issues and science involved. It was assumed, however, that they would have a
sound idea of what the issues meant in terms of farming and fishing. They did not
escape completely the criticisms levelled at those assuming a position of public visi-
bility. For instance, the parting comment of one person after recommending that I
speak to a fisherman was, 'he'll talk to you, he likes the sound of his own voice
that one'. However, they were seen as able to translate abstract issues into practical
meaningful terms, they were trusted mediators. As representatives of local interests
their ability to speak to people in a comprehensible way as well as for them was
important.
The credibility that their practical expertise gave them underscored an important
aspect of perceptions of theoretical knowledge, namely its dislocation from practical
experience, epitomised by the cliche 'that's all very well in theory, but . . .'. Lack
of familiarity with the empirical and the social context can make nonsense of abstract
theory in situ. A subtle evaluation of one public figure's opinions on radioactive
 Insiders and outsiders 135

pollution emerges from one fisherman's account. Rather than make any direct state-
ment, he switched from talking about the MHK's public statements about radioactive
pollution's effect on the fishing stock to an incident concerning the fishing of basking
sharks. This same MHK had been horrified to discover that local fishermen were
catching basking sharks that had been appearing near the coast. The fisherman said
he realised that this might seem terrible:

These big, plankton eating things, like whales . . . but people from the city don't
understand. When they are around like that in hundreds and there is a market for
them, there is no harm in the locals catching a few and making some money . . . the
small boats have a hard enough time . . . they knew what they were doing.

The parallel was clear, environmental opinions based on abstract theories did not
necessarily relate to the 'real world'. Further, the world of those who held such
abstract views was distanced from the reality of those whose knowledge was based
on experience. Educated people with good intentions did not necessarily know what
they were talking about. The superiority of abstract knowledge was undermined by
comparison with knowledge gained from experience.
The undermining of abstract, theoretical knowledge by 'down to earth' observation
is an everyday occurrence, not restricted to the Isle of Man, but, as Geertz points
out, there is nothing straightforward about 'common sense' and there are a number
of reasons why it should be treated as a relatively organised body of considered
thought.17 The opposition of scientific knowledge and commonsense opposes 'us'
and 'them': it is to do with social identification. It undermines abstract thought by
presenting what we 'know' to be true in its place. The wish to present any public
as capable, reasonable thinkers can lead to accepting 'commonsense' at face value.
There is a danger that slipping into uncritical reproductions of commonsense obser-
vations, whether this is to denigrate them or to laud their wisdom, will reify the
process setting the two in opposition. Two (at least) interpretations of 'the facts' are
at issue. In order to analyse the resulting situation, it is necessary to examine both -
and also the opposition itself. Such an opposition is not 'natural', it symbolises a
drawing of lines which can lead to a serious breakdown in communication, and
pre-empt negotiation of shared meanings and knowledges.
The way 'common-sense' interpretations are curiously invisible from some view-
points, but powerful motivating forces from others, is central to understanding per-
ceptions of expertise. Looking at interpretations of science or technology is not a
matter of following the linear trajectory of an artefact from one definitional structure
through others, which alter it in minor ways. Rather, the observer is faced with
simultaneous, conflicting interpretations of the totality of the social and natural
world. However, while all 'worldviews' are equal in their definitional potential, domi-
nance occurs when one structure blocks the power of actualisation of others. Here
 136 ROSEMARY McKECHNIE

I would draw on the work of Edwin Ardener, and his concern with 'socio-intellectual
structures that regularly assign contending viewpoints to a non-real status; making
them "overlooked", "muted" "invisible"', (1989: 133).18 The 'muted' nature of some
interpretations results from processes that are at work in everyday interactions ensur-
ing that some interpretations are restricted while others carry more weight and have
wide cultural validity.
The rhetorical power of science is integrated into Western cultural 'ground rules'.
As noted by several authors in this book, 'ordinary' common sense appears inarticu-
late and incoherent in comparison with the persuasive explicative power of scientific
idioms. People are aware that their views and their way of articulating things are
categorised as inappropriate and of lower status in wider contexts. As Michael points
out in the previous chapter, the 'deficit' view of the public has entered into the
popular consciousness (see also Wynne 1991). This does not mean to say that publics
accept scientific accounts passively. Lay interpretations may be muted in relation to
science, but they do provide the basis for positive re-evaluations of local knowledges
in their own terms. Scientific knowledges seeking uptake enter into contexts that are
active, generating meaning. In so far as people's worldviews coincide with dominant
structures, they can expect their definitions to be realised in action; their categoris-
ation of the world can be synonymous with their experience. In contrast, 'muted
groups' are aware that their own interpretations are viewed as inferior, and their
worldview also contains a reflexive consciousness of the denigratory way they are
defined within dominant structures. They are more likely then to have developed
ideas about the social and cultural relationships embedded in the status of scientific
knowledge. The muting of local"knowledges in relation to science renders cultural
dislocations in interpretation invisible much of the time. However, these processes
are dynamic, embracing a changing social world that continually throws up new
situations that require redefinition, jeopardising established relations.
The widespread pollution resulting from the Chernobyl accident of 1986 provided
just such an unforeseen situation. Paine's research with the Saami and that of the
Lancaster group with Cumbrian farmers pointed out how these groups' own special-
ist practical knowledge was a treasured part of their identity, and its exclusion from
official responses further entrenched the boundaries that produced perceptions of
the situation in terms of 'us' and 'them'. Paine expresses very clearly how the Saami
came to feel that dependence on expert knowledge delegitimated their cultural ident-
ity (1987, 1992). Similarly Cumbrian farmers19 were confronted with policies that
were impracticable and alien in their formal style and planning, while their own
knowledge of local habitat and of farming practices was ignored (see Chapter One).
There was no basis for negotiation between the differing perspectives, as policy was
based on a scientific definition of the issue, which did not recognise any other relevant
point of view. As a consequence, farmers' interpretation of the situation developed
 Insiders and outsiders 137

in terms of ideas about the social relationships involved quite as much as 'facts'
about radio-isotopes, pastures, and sheep. This process of identification reinforced
the cultural boundaries setting the farmers apart, in opposition to governmental,
industrial, and scientific groups.
In fact, on the island, Chernobyl fall-out gave rise to a quite different train of
events. The first response of the Manx government to the uncertain magnitude of
the problem was to table a meeting with farmers' representatives. The difficulties
involved in responding to the information that was coming from the UK, with its
contradictions and uncertainties, were shared by politicians, officials, and farmers.
The focus of discussions was on those areas over which those around the table had
control; the practicalities involved in enacting the restrictions that they were told
were necessary. Unlike the Cumbrian case-study, Manx farmers' knowledge formed a
valuable contribution to the translation of scientific knowledge into practice. Working
through the problems involved in monitoring the sheep took time and stretched the
workload of the officials of the Department of Agriculture. However, they were
familiar with the practical constraints imposed by hill farming, and were allowed the
flexibility to develop procedures as they saw fit. Those officials who carried out the
monitoring had contact with farmers over an extended period and through the many
changes in the expert advice.20 They bore the brunt of mediating between science,
legislators, and farmers. One man described how he found himself in a position of
having to read about the science involved because farmers expected him to be able
to explain why monitoring was organised as it was. He was unwillingly being put
in the position of 'expert'. His strategy was to act as a pro-active broker. Rather
than laying claim to the knowledge himself, he photocopied articles in the popular
scientific media he found useful and gave these to farmers, working through the text
with them. Any discomfort about expert opinion and the setting of limits was thus
shared. There was resentment amongst farmers at being told how to organise their
land and animals, and relations between the different parties were put under some
stress. However, there was also common agreement that the reputation of Manx
lamb was important to protect. Resentment arising from the uncertainty regarding
'safe limits' was exacerbated by the feeling that these limits were tied to the perceived
interests of the UK government. I shall look more closely at the boundary between
local and UK knowledges in a later section, but first I would like to examine further
the boundaries within the Manx context.

Insiders and outsiders: identifying the margins of science

As was stressed earlier, the island encapsulates a varied population with different
points of view. However, those who live on the island are tied together by the
definitional processes delimiting local cultural boundaries and shaping perceptions
 138 ROSEMARY McKECHNIE

of expertise. Within the Manx context, any statement made is open to interpretation
in terms of the stereotypes of outsiders and insiders. The categorisation of different
styles of communication overlapped with cultural identification. Most of the public
figures associated with these issues were not native Manx, or had spent some time
away, and there was more than one reference to 'another comeover who thinks they
can come here and tell us how to run things'.
Any outsiders' opinion may be used to exemplify how all comeovers are pushy
and think they know everything; whatever they have to say might be discounted on
this basis. This is a mirror reflection of outsiders' representations of the Manx as
backwards and slow. Again, this can provide a framework within which to set any
Manx point of view, or a perceived lack of point of view, as the oblique references
and understatement of discourse shaped by Manx rules of play go unnoticed or are
misinterpreted. The imagery that opposes Manx and 'comeover' paints a picture of
a traditional rural community invaded by the rat-race with its attendant values. Day-
to-day contact often gives rise to experiences that strengthen rather than challenge
stereotypical representations.21 While incomers may see themselves in a backwater
where little happens (often following keenly national and international news) Manx
information networks are alive with information relating to insular politics, issues,
and scandals.
Several of the incomers who had taken a public stance about issues relating to
radiation explained their adoption of a public stance in terms of the nature of the
Manx people. One felt that feelings on the island were strong but unstated. This
image of the nature of the Manx people, as 'grumblers', too shy to voice their view
effectively, positively valued the role of the outsider; it took an outsider to give
impetus to a public voice there. Some admitted disquiet about taking on too promi-
nent a role, in the knowledge that 'comeovers' were often resented as 'taking over'
any public matter. However, they perceived there to be a shortage of local people
used to addressing both the public and the authorities. There appeared to be no
local framework for organising protest in an effective way. Another criticised rep-
resentations of the island as 'the eternal victim of oppression', going on to give his
own account of the 'Manx condition'. Here the 'passivity' of the Manx was presented
in a more negative light, as a 'malaise' linked with other problems such as lack of
ambition, high figures for alcoholism, suicide, and divorce.
The common thread running through both sympathetic and critical accounts of
Manx nature was passivity and fatalism. Herzfeld has noted that this is a common
theme in popular and academic accounts of peripheral European populations. This
'mark of otherness' fits with criticism aimed at riic inability of these areas to establish
proper bureaucratic organisation, discounting their cultural organisation and
expression (1987: 49-53).22 It is important to note that this exclusion of science, in
both dominant definitions of the 'other' and self-definition can be linked to a variety
 Insiders and outsiders 139

of social parameters, for example, class, gender, or race. This pattern of definition
is marked in relation to the Celtic peripheries23 where the emphasis is very much
on the 'natural' and 'wild' character of the Celt (see Chapman 1978). One of the
definitional oppositions that sets the more remote peripheries of Europe apart from
dominant centres is the association of the centre with science, modernity, and rational
government. The idea that science and technology were not the province of the
Manx, that they were in some way unsuited to dealing with such issues, was certainly
present in outsiders' accounts. These ranged from describing the Manx as insular,
uninterested in wider social issues, to more mystical explanation. 'There is something
about the Manx character that sets them apart . . . they are too self-contained, they
keep everything inside . . . People aren't interested in anything further afield than
the next street, they don't think about issues like nuclear power.' One man told me
he had lived on the island for twenty years and could count on the fingers of one
hand the Manx he could discuss 'issues like that' with. Another likened the Manx
approach to radioactivity to superstition, saying they saw it as something like the
evil eye, invisible but deadly.
This stereotypical theme was present in an ambiguous joking way in many of the
asides by which native Manx responded to my questions. People followed their own
denial of knowledge with an assertion to the effect that I would not find many other
people there interested in that sort of thing. Allusions were made to inbreeding and
emigration of the brightest. Individual assertions of ignorance in terms of being
unfit to know, establishing science as distant and unknowable, were extended to the
community; creating solidarity in their position vis a vis science. Paradoxically, how-
ever, this apparent espousal of self-disempowerment disguised how strong the power
to resist external, scientific interpretations of issues was on the island. Within the
Manx community there is a strong prevailing cultural basis for the re-evaluation or
even rejection of scientific expertise that jars with local style and practical knowledge.
Far from being a passive public, waiting to be persuaded or educated, people were
actively interpreting from their own point of view and with their own aims in mind.
The opposition of scientific and lay knowledges overlapped with significant symbolic
boundaries between the island and the outside world, and between different groups
on the island. These resulted in competing definitions of expertise on the island.
Outsiders mobilising extraneous knowledge on behalf of the Manx public as a whole,
ran the risk of being evaluated in negative terms. According authority to scientific
expertise on its own terms threatened local structures of power, which disadvantaged
outsiders who did not understand the 'ground rules' or possess relevant local
knowledges.
The apparently ineffectual 'grumbling' that some outsiders perceived was actually
the tip of an iceberg of very effective information sharing. The sanctions imposed
by 'loss of face' through informal channels within the community was an efficient
 140 ROSEMARY McKECHNIE

system for making sure that local opinions were well represented. The pressure
exerted on representatives could be very effective. As one MHK put it: 'people are
more interested in the potholes in the road but if things go wrong, then they ask
questions all right, then they'll ask what we've been doing about it all the time so
the stance taken is critical, that's why we did the report'. The report in question
was the document that outlined Tynwald's stance on UK nuclear installations, par-
ticularly Sellafield. In the next section I follow expert and local knowledges into the
institution of Tynwald.

Tracing expertise through institutions

Tynwald occupies an important position both as the main seat of responsibility and
decision-making, and in its mediating position between the island and the outside
world. The House of Keys, the body of elected representatives (there are 24 MHKs)
and the government's 'civil service' are all housed in Atholl Street, Douglas. Each
elected member is assigned a position in one, or more, of the departments that are
loosely based on the UK governmental system.24 Each department (there are 9 in
all) has a minister, several elected representatives, and the equivalent of civil servants.
The latter both provide advice and put into action directives from the government.
Since all are gathered together within one relatively contained area, around a commu-
nal cafe and library, the boundaries separating each department are much less pro-
nounced than in the larger institutional setting they emulate. The informal aspects
of the system are recognised and valued, the tension between informal and formal
accepted. There are some indications, however, that the balance is changing and that
new circumstances, particularly related to environmental issues, are placing some
strain on the institution.
In the micro-context of island politics, where the 'social distance' between the
public and their representatives is very small, this negotiation is based primarily on
shared local knowledge. The Manx see their government as composed of individuals
with individual responsibility, competence, and moral integrity. One important
aspect of representations of the Manx character is that the Manx are uninterested
in politics. Local politics are said to be unlike politics 'across'. Most MHKs stand
and are elected as independents. They are not expected to have a coherent policy
(though, recently, new members have produced documents describing their aims
and views), but are elected on the basis of personal qualities. Until recently, most
MHKs have been local businessmen or professionals. Since most MHKs work within
the community, and have been part of it for some time, they are visible, familiar,
and approachable.25 They are held personally accountable to their constituency for
their decisions. Since personal knowledge of those in power is extensive, and there
is an absence of party political rationale for their decision-making, much of the
 Insiders and outsiders 141

public's theorising about their actions and decisions is focused on the personal level.
Personal reputation is of vital importance in this political culture.
Despite the knowledge that people had about members of the House of Keys, in
many ways Tynwald was a 'black box' to members of the Manx public. They had
little or no knowledge of the relevant expert knowledges used as a policy resource
within the institution. Some had heard of the public analysts' office, few knew of
the civil servants who were working on issues concerning radioactivity. Perceptions
of what constituted relevant expert knowledge within Tynwald were very different
from views expressed outside. The MHKs I had been directed to by members of
the public were modest about their own grasp of the science involved in issues
relating to ionising radiation, and pointed out the few individuals who they con-
sidered really did know about radiation within the institution. Again, 'real' expertise
was always at a remove.
A theme which ran through all accounts was the relative lack of scientific expertise
within the island. This has certainly made itself felt in the last ten years as the island
has had to deal with an increasing number of environmental problems. As one MHK
put it 'In a way we all have to be experts in everything here.' Not only do decision-
makers have to deal with several areas at once, the government officials who are
advising and later implementing regulations are relatively few in number. While
Whitehall staffs departments with qualified specialists, in Tynwald one person may
be covering several areas without considering themself to be 'really expert' in any
of them. The few who do have a scientific background, notably in the analyst's
laboratory, are called upon as 'experts' in a wide range of scientific, environmental,
and technological issues. An important point emerging from consideration of both
the public and governmental domains on the island, is that the 'floating' attribution
of expertise contingent on knowledge, personal qualities, and experience remarked
on in everyday conversations, can be reified through time and circumstance.
Over the years a few individuals have assumed or been credited with 'temporary
expertise', because they possessed knowledge that was perceived as more or less
related to scientific knowledge about radiation. In the absence of more specialised
knowledge coming into the local context, this sort of temporary ascription has become
permanent. As the compiler of the reports on which Manx policy concerning the
UK nuclear industry is based explained, basically there was no one with any idea
about the subject, and, as he was the person who dealt with anything labelled
environmental, he had to do it. He had to work very hard to try and understand
the issues, spending an inordinate amount of time over the last ten years acquiring
competence in relevant scientific and technological fields. His evaluation of his work
was pragmatic; even if he did not have the grounding necessary to understand all
the ramifications of each issue, within the existing limitations it was as good as it
could be. His endeavours were appreciated by colleagues and MHKs, the report was
 142 ROSEMARY McKECHNIE

perceived as forming a practical basis for policy-making and presenting an informed

political stance to the outside world.
The public analyst's office provided another location of'expertise'. The incumbent
analyst at the time of the 1957 Sellafield fire, had conducted a few experiments, for
his own satisfaction as much as anything else, measuring beta radiation in various
foodstuffs. He was then called on, in his official capacity, to measure the effects of
the fire on the island. From that point on, dealing with issues concerning radioactivity
were assumed to be part of the office's remit, as was presenting findings to the public
via the local media. Recently, a scientist had been employed specifically to monitor
radiation on the island. Though his more sophisticated ideas about how to present
figures to the public (something that had been included in his training, indicating
the development of 'public relations' science) made the writing of press releases
easier, he was still uncomfortable with this responsibility. A scientist who had worked
in a large laboratory refining techniques for measuring one radio-nuclide, he found
that on the island his brief was much wider. To begin with he had to set up his
own measuring equipment, even to collect his own samples (in his own car) with
few resources. No one else was aware of the differences in technique that alpha,
beta, and gamma-radiation required, or the sensitive standards of calibration now
necessary for professional credibility.
There were marked discrepancies in actors' own appreciation of the status
accorded to their 'expert' knowledge. As one man put it, that was in a way what he
liked about working on the island: 'you never know what's going to happen next'.
It was noticeable that others were less relaxed with the authority that their standing
on the island carried. For instance, the new community physician, who found he
was in the position of having to reassure people about Chernobyl fall-out without
being absolutely clear on the dangers it represented. There was no 'higher expertise'
to refer people to. Most of these actors had come from institutions elsewhere, there
was no coincidence of 'habitus' and 'habit' for them, they were not 'at home' in
their position (Bourdieu 1981, 308).26 Their own practical experience and training
had not prepared them for this position of being the sole authority for a wide variety
of issues. In contrast, officials whose primary training took place on the island were
relatively relaxed with the idea that they should adopt a pragmatic approach which
drew on areas of expertise in an ad hoc way to deal with problems as they arose.
Dealing directly with the local public presented problems to those bringing expert-
ise from the outside world to the Manx context. They were transplanted from a
position in a wide scientific establishment where their particular role was defined
within a network which spread knowledge and responsibility over a wide institutional
area, to a position where they represented the scientific establishment per se. As a
result, aspects of science that in their 'native world' could be taken for granted or
 Insiders and outsiders 143

left to others to deal with, were 'twisted off into this new definitionary context in
a disconcerting way, leading them to reflect on areas they might not otherwise have
perceived as problematic. One scientist reflected ruefully on what appeared to him
to be the arbitrary interest of the media. The levels of radiation monitored after the
Sellafield fire, for example, provoked little interest, while recent results, which he
described as minor by comparison, were interpreted as indicating the public were
at risk. 'Facts and figures' were used to substantiate shifting and conflicting views.
Another took the position that there had to be a safe limit, based on parallels with
an area of chemistry he was familiar with. He was prepared to trust the 'real' experts
on ionising radiation to define these, but was confounded when he found that the
'experts' kept changing the guidelines. He worried about how this uncertainty could
be presented to the public in a way that would not undermine the scientific
establishment.
The scientists could be called upon to represent the island to the outside world,
notably to provide data in support of the critical stance adopted towards the British
nuclear industry. They were caught in something of a double-bind, as the values of
the scientific establishment, which they still considered themselves to be working
within, were potentially threatened by local challenges that they were participating
in. They were also aware that their expertise was vulnerable to evaluation in terms
of different professional standards outside the island. They found themselves
embodying a stressful position which straddled significant boundaries and was subject
to pressure from both sides. The difficulty experienced by those who had to play
an expert role both locally, and in wider arenas, renders explicit inbuilt assumptions
current in dominant institutions about the nature of scientific knowledge as estab-
lished, above political, social, and moral interests; a hierarchy of expertise based on
credentials and specialisation. Like other local 'experts' already discussed, those who
had come to the island with specialist knowledge were anxious to put this knowledge
in perspective, comparing it with 'real expertise' which was again located elsewhere.
There was varying dissonance between their ascribed status on the island and their
own ideas of expertise shaped by their different professional cultures.
The above description may give the impression that the institutional identification
of need and the actual 'bricolage' of available knowledge owed more to serendipity
than design. It should be stressed that this is not particular to the Isle of Man, but
is a much more general process. Bourdieu describes such situations as 'grey areas'
of social space (1981: 310) and points out that a multitude of factors are involved:
The institutionalisation of 'spontaneous' divisions that occurs little by little, under the
pressure of events, through the positive or negative sanctions the social order exerts on
organisations . . . leads to what can eventually be seen as a new division of the work of
domination . . . Thus the social world comes to be peopled with institutions which no
 144 ROSEMARY McKECHNIE

one designed or wanted . . . [These are] . . . Not just production of bureaucracy nor of
individual transactions but both the social conditions of the production of agents
(inside and outside the institution) and the institutional conditions in which they
perform their functions. (Ibid., 312)

The identification of expertise within the institution was very much an extension of
the local cultural context. At the same time, external professional, political and econ-
omic pressures also exerted considerable pressure.

Crossing boundaries: local knowledge and the outside world

We have returned by a circuitous route to expertise at the nexus of scientific estab-
lishments, policies, and publics, specifically to the island's response to scientific
expertise concerning radiation. In contrast to the confident views they held on local
issues, many people were uncertain about their own views concerning issues relating
to ionising radiation. One aspect of the issue was clear - people talking about attitudes
to nuclear power on the island constantly came back to an explanation in terms of
interest. It was commonly said that if a proposal to link into the national grid came
to pass, and electricity went down by 2p a unit, then all criticism of Sellafield would
disappear. The formula that 'the island got all the problems with none of the benefits'
was a phrase particularly used by politicians. However, although this provided a
simple political formula, it certainly did not fully cover insular perceptions of the
issues.
I came across very few people who were particularly worried about other pollution
or environmental issues on the island.27 This is partly due to the image of the island
as a 'rural idyll', a haven of peace far from the technology of the modern world. This
vision does, however, throw into relief any incursion of technology and modernity, so
that radioactive pollution, from Chernobyl or Sellafield, is much more shocking in
this habitat, envisaged as traditional and 'natural'. It is 'out of place' - a concrete
symbol of the conceptual incursion of'rat-race' society. Zonabend (1989; 9) describes
the nuclear installations set in Cap de la Hague in Brittany in similar terms, as the
juxtaposition of two different worlds, discordant universes, one frozen in the past
the other turned to the future. The quality of Manx lamb and shellfish are a matter
of insular pride. The fact that these were threatened, and thus by association the
farmers and fishers regarded as the last representatives of 'real' Manx life, struck at
the heart of the romantic imagery setting the island apart. Fears of pollution rep-
resent an extra dimension of a constantly encroaching violent and impersonal
modernity.
It was often pointed out to me that the chimneys of Sellafield were visible from
the eastern coast of the island, but the significance of this was seldom put into words.
People did express fear and uncertainty about radiation, but this was not tied to any
 Insiders and outsiders 145

concrete ideas of how radiation acted. The mother who burnt children's clothes
which were outside drying when Chernobyl fall-out passed over the island was not
sure why she had done this. There was an area of silence, of uncertainty around
radiation. Sometimes when I prompted responses, conversations then tended to the
abstract, about science in general. The points of view expressed tended to extremes
of evaluation, mobilising rhetorics of progress and danger. Scientific controversy was
often brought to play in the latter; 'they can never agree' or 'they change their minds
. . . in fifty years time they will decide that they've all got it wrong, and then it will
be too late'. People also gave examples of human error, of experts getting it wrong,
usually from the medical context where many had direct experience. However, ionis-
ing radiation itself was an unknown, profoundly so, in that it was not only invisible
and impossible to perceive using human senses, but knowledge that enabled its
measurement and evaluation was outwith the reach of local networks. The majority
of people I spoke to expressed uncertainty, they felt that they should know more
themselves, before making decisions. Further, they were doubtful of the extent of
their representatives' knowledge. 'Real' scientific expertise was very much perceived
as belonging elsewhere, but it was not trustworthy for other reasons.
There was a conflation of all related bodies of expertise (MAFF, NRPB, Nil) with
the British government; they were identified as 'UK', as representing the interests of
the UK, and therefore untrustworthy. This was true at all levels; for example, a
fisherman recounted the tale of how a trawler was dragged along by a submarine,
only to have the incident denied by the authorities. One MHK I spoke to stated
bluntly that what you get from experts is the view of the wider system they are
part of:
whether it's Greenpeace or BNFL there just doesn't seem to be anyone in between . . .
As for the NRPB, they're seen by most as part of the government-cum-BNFL set, I
don't know how far that is true, but they are perceived as the same and so they just
don't have the credibility. Likewise MAFF are easily dismissed as just another part of
the U.K. establishment.

Another MHK echoed this view: 'Sellafield is seen as synonymous with the UK
government on the island, as is the NRPB . . . there really is nowhere to turn to for
independent advice.' As Zonabend (1989: 177) notes, Chernobyl gave both a language
and conceptual space for fixing nuclear disaster. One of the first consequences for
the island was the highlighting of the local lack of expertise and technological capacity
for evaluation of the situation. Following from this came the exacerbation of the
distrust already embedded in the dependence on UK agencies, particularly Sellafield,
which was, of course, the nearest monitoring facility to the island. The island has
since acquired its own monitoring and testing equipment (some funding was pro-
vided by Sellafield for this) and asked to be included iii both RIMNET (a monitoring
system set up to measure background gamma-radiation), and LARRMACC
 146 ROSEMARY McKECHNIE

(a local authority monitoring system which has established links with the Irish
Government).

Conclusions
The dilemna for local 'experts' and representatives described above is that they have
to identify in some way with external agencies of specialist information, yet they
must at the same time identify with local idioms and structures that, to an extent,
define themselves in opposition to those external agencies. Managing this ambiguity
has arguably been made more difficult by the lack of pluralism in UK political
institutions. Local politicians were being put in a very difficult position. One of the
problems was that they had to be seen to be doing something for the island, but
because they were being effectively ignored by the UK their efforts often went vir-
tually unnoticed. The international dimension of environmental decision-making
bodies, the changing configuration at both local and national level within Europe,
have thrown the power relations between different units of government into sharp
relief. At a recent international conference concerning, amongst other things, radioac-
tive pollution of the Irish sea, the UK had insisted on speaking for them, despite,
or because of, Manx opposition to their stance. The island threw their lot in with
other 'peripheral' countries - Ireland and Iceland - establishing a contact that is
increasingly well established. These events will have far-reaching repercussions for
the definition and realisation of regional relations: boundaries are being redrawn.
The erosion of pluralistic centres of political legitimacy exacerbates these degener-
ative tendencies, leaving little in the way of mediating institutions to mitigate and
inform state powers. The local dimensions of public interpretations of science and
its practitioners have received too little attention, despite the fact that, in terms of
nuclear power, oppositions to scientific authority have been organised at a local level
from the very beginning, long before the advent of national opposition groups (see
Welsh: 1993). The propensity to focus on the latter, with their technocratic dis-
courses, takes attention away from important processes that affect the uptake and
credibility of science. This occlusion of the political dimension of the opposition of
interests at national and regional or local levels (ibid.), is echoed by the aims and
methodology of much research that has investigated 'the public understanding of
science'. This has concentrated on individual lack of knowledge, and inability to
participate in democratic processes concerning technological decisions. This simplis-
tic division between 'universal' centralist modern institutions and atomised individ-
uals renders invisible the significant boundaries and relations that are forged and
renegotiated around issues.
Constructions of expertise on the island have until recently been based on face-to-
face politics where the assumption of authority is constantly challenged on the basis
 Insiders and outsiders 147

of an informal egalitarian ethos, on moral terms, or on 'common-sense' grounds.

However, there is the paradox that this is at odds with the need for 'real expertise'
at a local level to protect the island's interests and independence in the wider context.
This only exposes the need to build bridges from this local context to increasingly
cosmopolitan arenas of environmental decision-making in which small regional enti-
ties representing local interests are struggling to participate. Protecting the island's
and other local interests and identities in the developing international environmental
policy context will exacerbate tensions over identification, trust, and credibility which
the field work reported here has identified. However these tensions are handled in
future practice, an important research conclusion is that scientific expertise is ident-
ified, experienced, and responded to in terms of the institutional, social, and cultural
dimensions in which it is always and inevitably embedded, whatever specific form
this embedding takes. Scientific and governmental institutions rarely recognise these
dimensions as the bedrock of legitimacy for scientific and technological projects,
hence of public uptake and understanding.
Ardener (1985) notes in his essay on the passing of modernism that the debate
about rationality and relativism is a recurring one; it arises in periods of theoretical
and moral shift, when the dominant category system is perceived as inadequate and
is opened out to encompass hitherto muted interpretations of the world. The atten-
tion that has been focused on different publics' interpretations of science offers the
possibility of relocating 'science' and 'the public' in a new framework, setting science
in context and developing the terms of the debate constructively in a self-critical
way.

NOTES

I would like to thank all those on the Isle of Man who found time to talk to me, 'show
me the ropes' and make my stays there congenial. Also my colleagues at CSSSP
Lancaster, the editors of this collection, and Ian Welsh for their help with earlier drafts
of this chapter.
1. Giddens (1991) and Beck (1992) both place relations of trust and risk at the heart of their
attempts to theorise modernity. Risk/trust relations become a central theme around which
individual and collective identities are forged and organised, redrawing relationships between
localities and dominant institutions. Douglas and Wildavsky (1982) while taking a different
approach also isolate these key factors as crucial to understanding modern social forms.
Douglas' grid /group approach focuses on the links between cosmology and social form. Like
Downey (1988: 259) the approach taken here sees the links between ideologies and social
forms as much more fluid and flexible within actors' empirical relationships and identities.
2. As Barnes and Edge note: 'the credibility of expertise cannot be established by strictly
logical arguments . . . judgements of credibility and evaluations of expertise are invariably
and essentially modulated by the contingencies of the settings in which they are made
. . . We need concentrated empirical study . . . to build up an understanding, not only of
specific judgements and evaluations, but of the basis of credibility generally' (1982: 237).
148 ROSEMARY McKECHNIE

For an evaluation of contextual studies of expertise see the introduction to Wynne and
Smith (1989).
3. As a crown dependency, theoretically there is no sphere in which the UK government cannot
legislate for the island, but, in practice, the insular governing body Tynwald has jurisdiction
over internal matters, while the UK government has retained decision-making powers over
matters of international dimension. The island's legislation is heavily influenced by Britain,
but differs in several important fields, for example, labour relations, moral issues and
European integration.
4. See Zonabend (1989), Wynne (1992), Chapman (1993).
5. Until this point the Manx government's policy had been to confine concern about the UK
nuclear industry to statements about Sellafield, however, it was decided this stance should be
reassessed following the Chernobyl disaster, and following from the Irish government's call
for nuclear stations to be phased out.
6. Fears about the development of a two-tier economy, and pressure on local amenities were
voiced over a decade ago {Report of the Select Committee of Tynwald on Population Growth and
Immigration, 1979).
7. Cohen (1987) gives a superlative account of how difference is an essential component of
identification as belonging to a closely bound Shetland community, which resonates strongly
with what I came to understand of Manx village life.
8. For examples see Latour and Woolgar (1986: 285).
9. I would agree with Wynne (1992: 300) that Callon's theoretical approach does not take into
account the historical, social, and cultural factors framing the relationship between fishermen
and scientists from the fishermen's point of view in his insightful account of events in St
Brieuc Bay (1986).
10. Strathern (1987) analyses the way concepts are used by anthropologists to describe the society
of the 'other', creating awareness of different social worlds using terms belonging to their
own.
11. This has parallels in recent trends in anthropological writing, for example see Clifford and
Marcus (1986).
12. For a critical account see Emily Martin who points out that this approach tends not to
recognise a world outside discourse, ignoring the structures of power that create the
inequalities (1990: 72).
13. Concerning the identification of Symbolic Boundaries see McDonald (1987) on Brittany,
Okely (1983) on gypsies, and Downey (1988) on nuclear scientists.
14. Issues concerning radioactivity did make regular appearances in the local press (the Manx
Independent, the Manx Examiner): for example three pages were devoted to Chernobyl
pollution in 'Bequereled Lamb' (MI, 8 October 1988, 7-9).
15. To see how information concerning the integrity of actors can have enormous consequences
one need look no further than the role played by scandal in recent governmental changes, or
the impact of the 'callgirP scandal on the aspirations of the German nuclear industry.
16. On the island the processes involved are encapsulated in the local proverb of 'Manx Crabs':
the crabs, thrown into a bucket, expend all their energy in pulling down any crab which
looks as though it is going to manage to escape.
17. To quote Geertz: 'analytical dissolution of the unspoken premise from which common sense
draws its authority - that it presents reality neat - is not intended to undermine that
authority but to relocate it. If common sense is as much an interpretation of the immediacies
of experience, a gloss on them, as are myth, painting, epistemology or whatever, then it is,
 Insiders and outsiders 149

like them, historically constructed, and, like them, subjected to historically defined standards
of judgement . . . It is, in short, a cultural system . . . it rests on the same basis that any
other such system rests; the conviction by those whose possession it is of its value and
validity' (1983: 75-6).
18. Ardener's writing on 'muted groups' stems from a concern with the way that women's
4
world view' can be rendered invisible by dominant male structures. It should be emphasised
here that 'muted' population need neither be marginal nor isolated, very different 'publics'
constituting most of society are muted in different ways in relation to science.
19. The fieldwork on which the analysis of Cumbrian farmers' responses to Chernobyl is based
was carried out by Jean and Peter Williams, whose 'insider' status contributed greatly to the
quality of material gathered.
20. The Island followed MAFF advice as to how long the contamination was likely to last
(ranging from twenty-one days in the first few weeks, through two years to the present
estimate of thirty-one years) and experienced the same disruption of lamb sales in the first
year of monitoring.
21. See Boon (1982 Introduction) on how, at the nexus of cultural overlap, exaggeration results
from process of identification, 'us' in opposition to 'them'; also Chapman (1982), McDonald
(1987), Okely (1983) on how the experience of the meeting of two cultures results in
misunderstanding that reify rather than dissolve stereotypes.
22. See Wynne (1992) on the way in which charges of 'fatalism' arise from the clash of cultural
idioms, one of which assumes prediction and control to be the normal reponse to events,
whilst the other emphasises flexibility in response to natural events.
23. It is interesting that nuclear installations are often located in 'remote areas' including the
Celtic peripheries, where they are perceived to be 'out of place', leading the reflection on the
nature of the locality as well as the technology concerned: see Chapman (1993), and
Zonabend (1989).
24. The nine Tynwald departments replicate their Whitehall counterparts in as far as is possible.
This chapter is concerned with the Department of Local Government and the Environment,
and the Department of Agriculture and Fisheries.
25. The following remark concerning a local issue was typical of the approach taken towards
elected representatives. A tirade of complaint wound up with the words: 'I'm not happy
about this then and I'm going to have word about it with that Miles Walker the next time I
see him.' None of the listeners doubted that this would be the case. Miles Walker is chief
minister in the House of Keys.
26. Bourdieu describes the concept of habitus (1977: 78).
27. The island was actually having to deal with several difficult environmental issues as efforts
were being made to bring pollution management into line with European directives.

REFERENCES

Ardener, E., 1989, 'The problem revisited', The Voice of Prophecy and Other Papers (Oxford: Basil
Blackwell). (First published in Perceiving Women, edited by S. Ardener 1975, London: Dent)
Ardener, E., 1985, 'Social Anthropology and the Decline of Modernism', Reason and Morality, edited
by J. Overing (London: Tavistock).
Barnes, B. and Edge, D. O., 1982, Science in Context (Milton Keynes: Open University Press).
Becher, T., 1989, Academic Tribes and Territories (Milton Keynes: Open University Press).
 150 ROSEMARY McKECHNIE

Beck, U., 1992. The Risk Society (London: Sage).

Boon, J., 1982, Other Tribes, Other Scribes (Cambridge University Press).
Bourdieu, P., 1977, Outline of a Theory of Practice (Cambridge University Press).
Bourdieu, P., 1981, 'Men and Machines', Advances in Social Theory and Methodology: towards an
integration of micro- and macro-Sociologies, edited by K. D. Knorr-Cetina and A. Cicourel
(London: Routledge and Kegan Paul).
Callon, M. 1986, 'Some elements of a sociology of translation: domestication of the scallops and the
fishermen of St Brieuc Bay', Power, Action and Belief: a new sociology of knowledge}', edited by
J. Law (London: Routledge, and Kegan Paul).
Chapman, M. 1978, The Celtic Vision in Scottish Culture (London: Croom Helm).
Chapman, M. 1982, ' "Semantics" and the "Celt"', Semantic Anthroplogy (ASA Monographs 22),
edited by D. Parkin (London: Academic Press).
Chapman, M. 1993, 'Copeland: Cumbria's Best Kept Secret', Inside European Identities: ethnography
in Western Europe\ edited by S. MacDonald (Oxford: Berg).
Clifford, J. and Marcus, G. E., 1986, Writing Culture: the poetics and politics of ethnography (Berkeley:
University of California Press).
Cohen, A., 1987, Whalsey: symbol, segment and boundary in a Shetland Island community (Manchester
University Press).
Douglas, M., and Wildavsky, A. 1982, Risk and Culture (Berkeley: University of California Press).
Downey, G., 1988, 'Reproducing cultural identity in negotiating nuclear power: the union of
concerned scientists and emergency core cooling', Social Studies of Science, 18, 231-64.
Geertz, C , 1983, Local Knowledge. Further Essays: interpretative anthropology (New York: Basic
Books).
Giddens, A., 1991, The Consequences of Modernity (Cambridge: Polity Press).
Herzfeld, M., 1987, Anthropology Through the Looking Glass: critical ethnography in the margins of
Europe (Cambridge University Press).
Isle of Man Local Government Board, 1986, Report to Tynwald: BNFL Ltd - Sellafield Operations,
Douglas.
Kermode, D. G., 1979, Devolution at Work: a case study of the Isle of Man (Farnborough: Saxon
House).
Knorr-Cetina, K. 1988. 'The micro-social order: towards a reconception', Action and Structure, edited
by N. G. Fielding (London: Sage).
Latour, B., 1986. 'The Powers of Association' in Power, Action and Belief: a new sociology of
knowledge, edited by J. Law (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul).
Latour, B. and Woolgar, S., 1986, Laboratory Life: the construction of scientific facts, 2nd edn.
(Princeton University Press).
McKechnie, R., 1993, 'Becoming Celtic in Corsica', Inside European Identities: ethnography in Western
Europe', edited by S. MacDonald. (Oxford: Berg).
McDonald, M., 1987, 'The politics of fieldwork in Brittany', Anthropology at Home (ASA 25), edited
by A. Jackson (London: Tavistock).
Martin, E., 1990, 'Science and women's bodies: forms of anthropological knowledge', Body/Politics:
women and the discourses of science, edited by M. Jacobus, E. Fox-Keller, and S. Shuttleworth.
(London: Routledge).
Okely, J., 1983, The Traveller-Gypsies (Cambridge University Press).
Paine, R., 1987, 'Accident, ideologies and routines: 'Chernobyl' over Norway', Anthropology Today 3,
4, August.
Paine, R., 1992, in Special Chernobyl Issue, Public Understanding of Science 1,2.
 Insiders and outsiders 151

Report of the Select Committee ofTynwald on Population Growth and Immigration, 1979 (Douglas:
Tynwald Publications).
Strathern, M., 1987, 'Out of context. The persuasive fictions of anthropology', Current Anthropology
28, 3, 251-81.
Welsh, I., 1993, 'The Nimby Syndrome: its signficance in the history of the nuclear debate in
Britain' British Journal for the History of Science 26, 15-32.
Wynne, B. and Smith, R., 1989, Expert Evidence: interpreting science in the law (London: Routledge).
Wynne. B., 1991, 'Knowledges in context', Science, Technology and Human Values 5, 16, 111-21.
Wynne, B., 1992, 'Misunderstood misunderstandings: social identities and public uptake of science',
Public Understandings of Science 1, 281-304.
Zonabend, F., 1989, La Presqu'ile au Nucleaire (Paris: Odile Jacob).
 7 Authorising science: public understanding
of science in museums
SHARON MACDONALD

Science communicators are widely acknowledged to have an important role to play

in the public understanding of science. Despite this acknowledgement, the role is
often seen as one of simply transporting information, like so many potatoes on a
conveyor belt, from the world of science to the public (the transportation model) or
else as a relatively straightforward matter of simplification and translation (the trans-
lation model). The aim of this chapter is to show that there is more to the communi-
cation of science than this supposedly value-free simplification and packaging; and
that science communication involves selection and definition, not just of which 'facts'
are presented to the public, but of what is to count as science and of what kind of
entity or enterprise science is to be.1 That is, science communicators act as authors
of science for the public. They may also, however, by dint of their own institutional
status, give implicit stamps of approval or disapproval to particular visions or versions
of science. That is, they may act as authors with special authority on science - as
authorisers of science.
Museums are one type of institution involved in the communication, authoring,
and authorisation of science, and as such they share many of the same problems,
and can exemplify many of the same issues, as other science media.2 Although
museums and science centres reach a smaller public than do some other science
communicators - such as schools and television - this public is nevertheless substan-
tial.3 Over the last decade in particular, many museums, and their relatives the sci-
ence centres, have been involved in developing new science communication stra-
tegies, strategies which have increasingly gone under the label of 'the public
understanding of science'.4 Although museums and science centres clearly have much
overlap with other science media, we should note that there are likely to be significant
differences of emphasis too. For example, the relative permanence of displays in
science museums and science centres compared with particular lessons or television
programmes, and perhaps their immediacy and the presence of 'the real thing', may
give them a stronger authorial presence than those of other media.
 Authorising science 153

Not only do science communicators define science for the public, they also in
effect build a vision of 'the public', and the kind of 'understandings' that the public
can be expected or hoped to make, into their communications. For example, the
public may be assumed to be lacking in any scientific knowledge or as already well
versed in its practical applications; it may be conceptualised as a large undifferen-
tiated mass or as comprised of groups with different interests; it may be seen as
bored or fascinated by science. The kinds of understandings which science communi-
cators hope to further might be abstract and generalisable or context-specific; they
might be about the social contexts of scientific work or about scientific facts; they
might be for day-to-day use or knowledge for its own sake. While science communi-
cators may set out to define precisely what they intend by each element in the 'public
understanding of science', it is often taken as a relatively unproblematic label to
indicate a shared enterprise. Even if definitions are made, there may well still be
different interpretations involved in practice. These understandings of 'science', 'the
public', and 'understanding' are difficult to see, however, without close observation
of a science communication during its construction.
The focus of this chapter is the creation and reception of a major 'permanent'
(i.e. at least ten years) exhibition in the Science Museum, London, an exhibition
whose making I observed on a day-to-day basis for a year before its opening in
October 1989.5 The Science Museum is the main site of the National Museum of
Science and Industry, and it acts in part as a record of high points of British achieve-
ment in science, industry, technology, and medicine. As such, it has a particularly
significant status as an authority on science and related areas. My intention in this
chapter is not only to look at the way in which science is represented in the final
exhibition, however, but to investigate this in relation to both the making of the
exhibition and its reception by museum visitors. By looking in detail at the construc-
tion of a science exhibition, my intention is to investigate both how and why science
is represented as it is. As we shall see, the case-study - Food for Thought: the
Sainsbury Gallery - is a particularly interesting one because its makers explicitly set
out to challenge what they saw as more orthodox views and presentations of science.
The story below, then, tells of the type of challenge which they made, how far they
managed to carry it out, and what its visitors made of it.

Contexts and visions of 'public understanding of science'

Food for Thought was the first major exhibition in the Science Museum to be begun
and completed under what was sometimes talked about in the Museum as a new
era. Since Dr Neil Cossons became director of the Museum in 1986, there had been
a good deal of change, much of it going under the Museum's new 'mission statement'
of 'the public understanding of science'. The onus was on the group of Museum
 154 SHARON MACDONALD

staff whose job it was to define the content of Food for Thought and to construct an
exhibition which would exemplify a 'public understanding of science' approach.
Before describing what they meant by this, let me briefly describe the context in
which the phrase 'public understanding of science' had entered the Science Museum
for, of course, authorship always takes place within a particular social, political, and
economic context and, as we shall see, it is not in any case quite clear just who the
author oi Food for Thought is.
The phrase 'the public understanding of science' seems to have become prevalent
in certain areas of public discourse in Britain in the wake of the Royal Society report
on public understanding of science, published in 1985.6 The Royal Society report
was intended to argue the case for the importance of science - its relevance and
use-value in modern society. As Bruce Lewenstein has argued of the use of the
phrase 'public understanding of science' in the United States in the post Second
World War period, what was frequently meant by its advocates was 'public appreci-
ation of science'.7 That 'science' is a body of knowledge produced by a fairly readily
identifiable scientific community seems to be assumed in the report. The report is
very specific, however, when it comes to 'the public', and much of its argument
seems to be directed at one particular group of 'the public': 'people responsible for
major decision-making in our society, particularly those in industry and govern-
ment'.8 As well as the decision-makers, the report classifies 'the public' as either
'workers' or 'citizens', and all are enlisted as members of 'the nation'.9 In keeping
with these definitions of the public, two main justifications are given for the national
importance of science. These are, economic - 'national prosperity'; and political - the
making of informed decisions within a democracy.10
Despite enlisting the public as citizens and decision-makers, however, the report
works with an implicit model of the public as deficient and misguided in its present
'lack of uptake of science', a model which has been referred to as a 'deficit model'.11
As the Introduction to this book suggested, this model is very much from the agenda
of the scientific establishment. 'Science' is taken as a professionalised and distinctive
domain that is, by definition, bounded off from lay people. The main way in which
the perceived problem of public ignorance about science is to be dealt with, then,
is by getting more science 'out' or 'across' that boundary to the public. It is not a
model which questions whether, or in what ways, that boundary does or should exist
in the first place. It also entails an implicit assumption that knowing more science
will lead to greater public support or appreciation for science, though as research
has indicated this certainly cannot be relied upon, greater knowledge about science
sometimes leading to greater scepticism of it.12
In taking up what the director of the Science Museum has referred to as 'the brand
name of public understanding of science',13 the Science Museum was recognising a
degree of overlap between its concerns and those of the Royal Society. The declining
 Authorising science 155

status of British science and technology internationally was seen to have conse-
quences for the status of Britain's National Museum. Was the Science Museum to
continue to try to represent both internationally significant and British achieve-
ments - achievements which were rarely as synonymous as they had sometimes
seemed to be in the past? If the Museum's role were to be based on the National,
then it faced confining itself largely to historical representation. However, particularly
given the Prime Minister, Mrs Thatcher's, widely reported negative views on
museums as being 'really rather dead',14 such an emphasis was one which would be
unlikely to win the Science Museum much favour - or funding - in government
circles. The public understanding of science label enabled the Museum to make its
arguments in terms of a national and contemporary role. This did indeed seem to
appeal to the prime minister who provided a supportive letter to the Science
Museum's trustees, indicating approval of the stance which they were taking:

I detect with appreciation [the Science Museum's] first steps to becoming not only the
nation's showplace for the best in contemporary science and technology but its
expanding role in promoting a broader public understanding of these important

As in the Royal Society report, the Prime Minister related the significance of
public understanding of science to the national economy: 'industrial success depends
on national attitudes to science, engineering and manufacturing. That is why I am
delighted that the Science Museum . . . displays the most modern technologies'.16
Like the Royal Society on behalf of scientists, then, the Science Museum was
using the public understanding of science brand-name in part to argue its case for
a share of the shrinking pool of government funding for public institutions. The
brand-name metaphor is an apt one, for it became indeed a kind of marketing label,
and, as the Science Museum's director observed, it could also be used to apply to
'products' which the Science Museum had long been offering.17 However, the Sci-
ence Museum was also having to sell its product to its visitors and potential visitors.
Visitors had come onto the museum agenda with a new urgency during the 1980s,
as the use of attendance figures as performance indicators on which funding might be
based loomed, and as more and more publicly funded museums introduced admission
charges. The Science Museum began charging for admission in October 1988. If the
Science Museum, like other public institutions, had long spoken in the name of 'the
public' and - like the Royal Society - had addressed that public as 'workers' and
'citizens' to be offered the useful and enlightening fruits of science and technology,
it was now faced with individuals with spending power who would make up their
own minds about whether to visit the Science Museum or go elsewhere. The
Museum, then, was perforce dealing with 'the public' not only as citizens, but also
as 'consumers', consumers who would make their own choices and who would not
 156 SHARON MACDONALD

necessarily relate to the Science Museum in the terms which that institution might
have wished to set down. No longer could the Museum rest assured in the knowledge
that what it was doing was good and important according to its own canon: visitors
mattered very tangibly and would vote with their purses.18 It was recognised through-
out museums that much of the competition which they faced came from other uses
of leisure time, such as staying at home watching television or visiting Madame
Tussaud's. So, where the Royal Society had addressed the public as workers, the
Museum found itself dealing with a public defined primarily as leisure-seekers. Of
course, the Museum could try to resist these definitions, and during the period of
my fieldwork there was much debate both within the Science Museum and through-
out the museum world about this. To some extent, however, these definitions of the
public were being authored outside museums themselves, and were being inscribed
into funding arrangements.
None of this is to say that a definition of the public which included the idea of
it as consuming and leisure-seeking was necessarily a bad thing. Many staff within
museums welcomed the greater opportunity that this seemed to bring to orient exhi-
bitions more towards visitors' wants and needs. As far as the public understanding
of science equation was concerned, no longer was it about the view of the public
from the vantage-point of science, but a more complex relationship in which the
public's wishes and definitions needed to be taken into account. To put this in terms
of our authorial metaphor, readers were not simply expected to be given what was
good and edifying for them, but their own tastes and preferences needed to be
accounted for, and written in to the communication product, too.
These definitions of the public as consuming and leisure-seeking are not, of
course, the whole story. They were neither unanimously accepted by Museum staff,
nor do they tell us all that is significant about the way in which the public is defined.
We still need to know what kind of consumers and leisure-seekers the public is -
spontaneous or careful? Purchasing entertainment or education? Homogeneous or
segmented by race, class, and gender? And so forth. And we also still need to know
what other definitions are brought into play in practice. Just as the definitions of
'the public' are configured and reconfigured by science communicators, so too are
those other terms within their semantic field, namely 'science' and 'understanding'.

A new vision? Food for Thought

Before discussing the ways in which 'science', 'the public', and 'understanding' were
used during the making of Food for Thought let me first give some background on
the exhibition, its making, and the research on which this chapter is based. Food for
Thought is, as its name implies, an exhibition about food. It is a large exhibition,
covering 810m2, containing some 160 text and graphic panels and about 170 three-
 Authorising science 157

dimensional exhibits. It was also a substantial exhibition in terms of time and money.
It took an exhibition team of six nearly eighteen months working full-time and often
overtime to complete the exhibition, and in addition numerous other people were
involved. It cost £1.2 million, excluding the Science Museum's own staff costs,
£750 000 of which was provided by the main sponsor, or patron, the Sainsbury
Family Charitable Trust, and a large proportion of the rest from a variety of other
sponsors with an interest in the subject matter.
The research on which this chapter is based was an ethnographic study of the
making oi Food for Thought in the year leading up to its opening. As the ethnographer
on the project, I spent much of my time with the six women museum staff who
constituted the exhibition team. They were responsible for the majority of decisions
about the content of the exhibition, for writing the script, for selecting the exhibits,
and for generally managing all of the bits and pieces and people who play a part in
making an exhibition actually happen. There were many more of these bits and
pieces and people than I had ever imagined in advance; they included, to give but
a few examples, historical objects, fake food, faxes (thousands of them), the budget,
sponsors, picture researchers, designers, builders, and nutritionists. In addition to
tagging along with the team, scribbling my notes in a corner, asking questions, and
fetching the sustaining fizzy drinks and crisps as the hours became longer and more
taxing, I also studied the stacks of paperwork that had accumulated in the 'Food'
offices, attended exhibition-relevant meetings elsewhere in the museum, and inter-
viewed staff in the Science Museum and at other museums and science centres.
Once the exhibition was opened, a sample of visitors to it was observed in the gallery
and interviewed at length, and this data is the basis for the discussion of visitors to
Food for Thought below.
The team clearly had a strong authorial role in the creation of the exhibition,
though, as I have noted, it had numerous other players to deal with, others who
played a vital role in enabling the exhibition to happen, but who also made resistances
of various sorts. Each exhibit in this large exhibition has a story of its route into
the displays behind it, and these stories often reveal quite complex plots, so the
account below is only intended to give some examples of the kinds of interventions
that sometimes interfered with the team's attempt to challenge more orthodox science
presentations. In other words, below I attempt to show just some of the more note-
worthy ghost-writers who were involved in the creation oi Food for Thought.
During the making oi Food for Thought there was much talk, particularly in the
team offices, of challenging established modes of museum science representation. A
rhetoric of newness and difference from what has gone before may well, of course,
be typical among creators of an exhibition, because it is through such notions of
discontinuity and difference that creativity is principally established in dominant
Western cultures.19 Although there is doubtless an element of exaggeration and
 158 SHARON MACDONALD

stereotyping involved in the contrasting of traditional representations and the new

exhibition, it is through such differentiation that the team defined their own
objectives and ideals. It may also be the case that this contrast was particularly strong
because of the sense of change wrought by the presence of a new director, and
because the team members themselves had a strong sense of being non-traditional
representatives of the Science Museum in many ways. The team referred to its
approach to the exhibition as 'public understanding of science', interpreting this as
involving primarily a foregrounding of the public, the museum visitors.
Although the vision of visitors as consumers and leisure-seekers was central to the
team members' definition, their approach also involved questioning the relationship
between the public and science. Just as the Royal Society and the Science Museum
had adopted the idea of 'public understanding of science' within a particular set of
interests, so too did the team. In part these concurred with those of the Science
Museum - they were employees within it, and charged with one of its particularly
prestigious tasks, after all. However, members of the team also assimilated the notion
to their own professional and personal positions within the Museum, identifying
themselves with a lay-public not to be cowed by science. This was something which
was partially fostered by a new exhibition-management strategy which took exhi-
bition-making out of collections-based curatorial departments into a new division of
'Public Services' set up specifically to manage the directly public-focused aspects of
the Museum. While team members certainly had considerable curatorial expertise
in their own areas, they were not selected to work on Food for Thought for these
skills so much as for their likely abilities in communicating with the public. Not to
be a subject expert was seen by them, on the whole, as a strength rather than a
weakness in creating this kind of public understanding of science exhibition. Stories
were told among the team of exhibitions which were basically curators' Ph.D. theses
pasted up onto panels, of exhibitions in which the curators were 'out of touch'20
with the public, of exhibitions which were written for 'the three other experts in
the field'. Food for Thought was not to be like this.
During the making of the exhibition it was common for team members to 'stand
in for' the public, by trying out on each other the text they had written, for example.
Dialogue like the following was not at all unusual:
ANN Does this make sense? Do you really think it's clear enough?
HEATHER Well, I understood it - and if I can understand it anybody can.

This self-identification with, and even celebration of, a fairly ignorant lay-public for
whom science was often difficult and distant was also, I suggest, fuelled by the
team's own status and gender within the Museum. Team members were relatively
low-graded to be charged with the task of making an exhibition (most were on
temporary promotions), something which they related in part to not having entered
 Authorising science 159

the Museum as subject experts. To create a team of six women was unprecedented
and not purely fortuitous in an institution where women curatorial staff constituted
only 30% of the total (and those at disproportionately lower grades). Their gender
and status as 'non-experts' seemed to become meshed together as markers of differ-
ence from what they mostly conceptualised as a traditional and conservative museum
establishment in which 'science' itself was masculinely gendered. They sometimes
talked of the paucity of representations of women in the Science Museum; and they
described examples of sexism which they had encountered, both personally and in
relation to the exhibition. What would Food be 'but a few ovens and a load of old
cookery books?', one male Museum official was reputed to have said. Their identifi-
cation with the public, then, was an identification with a public which had been
disregarded by the museum and scientific establishment; and part of the rhetoric
during the making of the exhibition was not just about getting more science to that
public, but about challenging some of the establishment high ground. The team
enjoyed the consternation which it caused in some quarters of the Museum by the
rumours which it started about a (fictitious) large lump of cheese complete with
mouse which would hover over the exhibition, or the (again fictitious) giant tea-cup
which would dominate the Museum's central atrium, or the (not fictitious) recon-
structed McDonalds and enormous chocolate mousse pot that would be included in
the exhibition.
In contrast to those exhibitions which were written for curators rather than visi-
tors, exhibitions which were said to 'go over people's heads', Food for Thought was
to be 'accessible' and 'user-friendly'. The users or public were defined by the team
in a number of ways. Firstly, they were to be lay-people with little or no prior
knowledge of school-type science and probably with a fear of science. Here again,
there was often self-identification by team members, the majority of whom had
degrees in history or archaeology rather than science. However, the idea of the public
as having little formal science, and regarding science as difficult and distant, was
not the deficit model described above, for the team also saw the public as having
relevant practical knowledge that, although not always classified as science, could be
drawn upon in helping visitors' understandings. Science, then, was not to be just
formal science or associated with a specialist community or sophisticated technology,
it was also to be related to everyday practical experience.
Although the exhibition was specifically designed for 'family groups', in fact this
often seemed to mean children.21 The 'reading-age' of the main text, for example,
was planned as being for not higher than 11-year-olds. There was great emphasis
on creating an exhibition which would be 'fun'; and one of the most dominant
features of Food's imagined audience seemed to be that it would be in need of enter-
tainment, boredom being seen as the state into which visitors would readily slip
unless constantly kept occupied by the exhibition. A recurring theme in the team
 l 6 o SHARON MACDONALD

members' discussions was whether the gallery would be 'boring' or 'busy' and
'interesting' and 'fun'. Names for exhibits, particularly during the early stages of
making, were often from the world of childhood and cartoons; and the great majority
of names for the exhibition produced during the team's own 'brainstorming' were
a good deal more jokey, childish, and fun than the exhibition's final title. An import-
ant aspect of entertaining visitors was the use of hands-on interactive exhibits, of
which there are a fairly large number in Food for Thought. Interactives were also
thought to be educational, of course, and again they present a particular vision of
science.22 In interactive exhibits visitors are encouraged to become involved, rather
than be passive viewers, and this was explicitly seen by the team as a further element
of removing some of the barriers around science. They also planned to avoid as far
as possible having barriers around any of their exhibits, again projecting their ideas
about the relationship between the public and science deeply into the final
presentation.
In their quest for entertainment, interest, and fun, visitors were conceptualised
as active choice-makers. This was both one of the storylines presented - the expan-
sion of food choice in Britain over the century with improved transportation and so
forth - and an idea built into the structure of the exhibition. In terms of the exhi-
bition structure, there are various routes which can be taken, choices of where to
go and what to see made inevitable by the plethora of exhibits and the many different
areas of the exhibition. This idea of choice was also extended, to a degree, into
science: diet was to be presented as a matter of individual choice rather than as a
set of rules, and different sides of arguments (over, say, fat in the diet), and different
sets of guidelines (for example, on calorie intake) were to be presented. The team
members tried to avoid being prescriptive, though they did sometimes interpret
'public understanding of science' as entailing giving guidelines that would be useful
to the public in their everyday lives.23 But, in the controversial area of nutrition in
particular, visitors were to be invited to make up their own minds - to make choices
even in domains of expert knowledge.
In team discussions, the public was often talked about as 'everyone'. Team mem-
bers generally seemed to assume that there would be few exceptions to their vision
of a scientifically uninterested and even fearful lay-public. At another level, however,
like the Royal Society and the Science Museum, the team also equated this public
with the nation. However, this was not a nation of homogeneous citizens or con-
sumers, but a nation segmented by ethnicity, class, and gender. This is illustrated,
for example, in an exhibit consisting of a set of larders, each dated to coincide with
a major immigration influence on Britain. Again, it was felt by the team that just
to include some of the groups which did not usually find any place in the Science
Museum - even if they were being represented as 'users' rather than producers of
 Authorising science 161

science - was to challenge some of the orthodoxy. For the same reason, photographs
and models often included women.
The public, then, was conceptualised as largely fun-loving and technophobic, as
choice-making, but easily bored, as child-like, British, and (sometimes) of a particular
race, gender, and class. So what kinds of'understanding' were expected of it? There
seemed to be little expectation that understandings would be at all sophisticated,
and quite often during the making of the exhibition ideas were abandoned because
they were deemed too difficult to present, particularly within a restricted space.
Exhibition-strategies designed to make science accessible, such as that of beginning
each topic area with something with which visitors would be familiar (for example,
a supermarket checkout desk), and the aim to make text short and simple, precluded
the opportunity to delve far into the unfamiliar. Food for Thought does not for the
most part attempt to convey abstract principles, but focuses instead upon information
within its context of application or use. The kinds of understandings that Food for
Thought seems to seek to develop are not so much a set of themes closely woven
together, each expanding upon one another, as loosely related pieces of information
among which visitors can choose and build together their own stories. It is significant
that in the 'messages' around which the exhibition was constructed, the direct form
of address (the pronoun 'you') is used almost invariably: in the arena of understand-
ing, the visitor is to piece together a story incorporating their own prior experience
and practical knowledge. Perhaps more than anything, the understanding that is
being fostered here is that the boundaries between the familiar and the unfamiliar,
between the everyday and science, can be crossed.
Just as the team conceptualised the public, it also defined science. Although the
team members generally seemed themselves to see it as something rather dull, they
were determined to turn it into fun and to break down some of the barriers surround-
ing it. Science was not to be abstract and specialised, but was to stretch in a con-
tinuum into the everyday and practical. The team also, at times, sought to question
the nature of scientific knowledge by, for example, showing variation in different
national calorie-intake recommendations, or by noting areas of disagreement among
scientists. However, these were not the only visions of science. In their aim of
allowing the public to make choices, the team members would talk about their own
role as simply presenting the facts in a value-free way: 'we don't make value judge-
ments' was a phrase which came up several times, though this was on at least one
occasion acknowledged to be 'impossible of course'. Therefore, although the exhi-
bition contains instances where the status of scientific knowledge is questioned, for
the most part 'facts' are presented unproblematically. This should not be surprising,
of course, for this is an exhibition about food rather than the status of scientific
knowledge itself, and is aimed at a lay-audience. To dispense with facts altogether,
 l 6 2 SHARON MACDONALD

or to present all of the scientific or indeed historical knowledge on display as conten-

tious, would neither have been an accurate reflection of the epistemological status
of much of that knowledge, nor would it have provided much scope for talking about
the subject-matter in hand (problems all too familiar to post-modern ethnographers).
There were further resistances that were made in the name of science however, and
it is to these resistances - resistances which played a role in the shaping of the
exhibition - which I now turn.

Authors, resistances, and ghost-writers

Within the Science Museum, Food for Thought, like other exhibitions, was identified
with the team or individuals responsible for planning its content and writing the
script. Indeed, Museum staff often refer to exhibitions by the name of their makers
rather than the title or subject-matter of the exhibition. Despite this internal recog-
nition of authorship, however, the team is not the official author of an exhibition.
Indeed, team members' names appear nowhere in the final exhibition, though spon-
sors, designers, the academic advisory panel, and those who gave assistance or
objects, all get a mention. The reason given for this 'deletion' is that the exhibition
is not the product of the team, but of the Science Museum. The team is subsumed
within the institution. The official author of the exhibition, then, is the Science
Museum itself.
This is not, however, simply a matter of relabelling the end-product, of the Sci-
ence Museum as an inconsequential nom de plume. The fact that the exhibition is
to be a Science Museum exhibition - that it is to speak in its name, under the mantle
of its authority - has an effect upon decisions made during the making of the exhi-
bition. There are also managerial implications, for the exhibition team must 'report
up' about its plans for the exhibition, and its superiors may well make suggestions
and could, feasibly, stop an exhibition going ahead if it were deemed to be inappro-
priate. In the case of Food for Thought, the authorial presence of the Science Museum
was felt, not so much through the hand of management, as through the awareness,
both on the part of the team members themselves, and others with whom they dealt,
that this was an exhibition which would have to be worthy of a place within the
Science Museum's authorising dominions. A particular vision of science, and of the
Science Museum, as a particular kind of authority on science, found its way into
the making of the exhibition. The following examples illustrate some of the main
areas from which the challenge to traditional visions of science that the team had
talked about was tempered.
As the exhibition progressed, the team seemed to have some recourse to more
orthodox, less social, representations of science, representations justified or seen as
inevitable because of the fact that Food for Thought was to be a Science Museum
 Authorising science 163

exhibition. Here, a contrast was sometimes made with museums of social history,
and a distinct identity and role of science museums accepted. Part of the reason for
this was that, just as the team's vision of the public needed to bear relation to the
actual visiting public, so too did its vision of science, and of its own institution's
identity and role, need to be recognisable at least in part to the exhibition's various
contributors and audiences. These included sponsors, advisors, and people asked for
assistance of one sort or another. For the team members to speak as the Science
Museum was an important statement of their own legitimacy to act as communicators
of science; it provided them with authority in their dealings with the various others.
Were their exhibition to be unrecognisable as a Science Museum exhibition - were
it to be thoroughly questioning the whole idea of science as a privileged way of
knowing, for example - the team's power to enlist the assistance of others would
have been weakened. This is not to say that the team necessarily wanted to question
the authority of science to this extent. Although I have described a context in which
the team wanted to reconfigure the authority relations between science and the
public, this did not necessarily entail divesting science of its authority altogether.
The team was after all, composed of employees of the Science Museum.
The authority of the Science Museum and of science also tended to emerge when
there were competing interests or particularly awkward dilemmas during exhibition-
making. At such problematic conjunctures, the fact that the exhibition was 'a Science
Museum exhibition' provided a readily available and relatively uncontestable ration-
ale for the decisions made. One particularly dramatic example of this was a major
editing of the exhibition - carried out in response to questions from the Museum's
Director about the 'clarity of the messages' - which resulted in the central 'Food
in the Factory' sections of the exhibition becoming largely devoid of the social,
political, and historical dimensions which had previously been intended. The focus
almost exclusively upon technological aspects of production was justified, albeit with
misgivings from some team members, with the statement: 'we are the Science
Museum after all'.24
It was not only the team members who shaped the exhibition through their
relations to the idea of the Science Museum. So too did other groups with which
they dealt. A clear example here was the conservative effect of perceptions of the
Science Museum upon the team's intentions to depict disagreement among scientists.
The team members had planned, in their section on 'Food and the Body', to include
a set of different statements by contemporary nutritionists to illustrate the disagree-
ment among them. The exhibition includes a panel entitled 'Consensus or contro-
versy?' Nutritionists known to hold quite divergent views were asked to provide a
short statement of their views, together with a mugshot. The statements which they
provided, however, far from illustrating disagreement, were all rather general and
far from controversial. Perhaps in the knowledge that their opinions would be on
 164 SHARON MACDONALD

display for at least ten years, and that these were views to be included in that monu-
mental record, the Science Museum, the scientists played safe.
These examples show, then, that the very fact of being the Science Museum,
invested as it is with the rather special authority of science, has an effect upon the
exhibition. The examples given are all quite noticeable ones, but the effects are felt
in many smaller ways too. None of this is to say that all Science Museum exhibitions
will turn out identical, or that the effects will necessarily be felt in quite the same
way, for a dialectic is set up between all of the various visions and players involved,
players which include the physical objects, the budget, visitors, and so forth. We
cannot ignore, however, the feedback system whereby perceptions of what the Sci-
ence Museum has displayed and what it is seen to stand for are played back into
new exhibitions. To make claims about what would or would not be appropriate for
an exhibition of this sort, and in particular to appeal to 'scientific accuracy', was a
significant authorising device. It was not only used by the team, but also by other
interested groups. For example, the advisory panel of nutritionists led the team
members to alter their early plans for the whole framework of the exhibition through
their claims that the nutritional principle that the organisation had been based upon
was now considered misguided. Later on, when the team members sent their scripts
to the panel and to their sponsors for comments on their 'factual accuracy' the latter,
together with the idea of what was 'scientific', sometimes became a contentious arena
around which to negotiate other interests.

Reading 'science'?
I have suggested that the visions embodied in the rhetoric during the making of
Food for Thought, especially during its earlier stages, were tempered to some extent
as the exhibition progressed by pre-existing definitions of science and of the per-
ceived roles of the Science Museum. This was by no means a complete shift, but
it left the exhibition with variable depictions of science and of public understanding
of science; and with what, to me at least, seemed like an exhibition less different
from previous ones than talk during its making had led me to imagine. Nevertheless,
the intentions to create a visitor-centred exhibition in which 'science' was predomi-
nantly presented as located in the everyday and familiar, and as interactive and easy,
still came through into the final exhibition. But how did its visitors see it? Here I
focus on the question of visitors' conceptions of 'science', and in particular whether
they felt that Food for Thought challenged their preconceptions. I look too at the
question of authorship - of who the exhibition's visitors thought had created the
exhibition and any consequences they saw to follow from this.
The study of audiences involved tracking groups of visitors through the exhibition
and then interviewing them at some length, in the groups in which they visited,
 Authorising science 165

after their visit.25 These interviews consisted of open-ended questions designed as

far as possible to encourage visitors to talk about the exhibition in their own terms;
and they were recorded. In the first part of the interview visitors were asked simply
to describe their visit to the exhibition and to tell the interviewer what they thought
its theme was. Their replies rarely mention science or technology. Instead, as I have
described in detail elsewhere, they are more likely to reconstruct the exhibition into
narratives about 'the history' or about 'healthy eating'.26 Both of these themes are
present in the exhibition, but what is significant about the visitors' accounts is that
they link together exhibits which were not linked either on the ground in the exhi-
bition or in its conceptual framework. Significant too is that 'healthy eating' is fre-
quently described as 'good foods and bad foods' or 'what you should and shouldn't
eat' even though the exhibition-makers had tried, in part at least, to avoid being
prescriptive or making this kind of classification of foods. Indeed, the exhibition
states directly, though not particularly prominently: 'Most scientists agree that no
one food in isolation is "good" or "bad".'
Although visitors seemed rarely to mention science and technology spontaneously,
we asked them directly whether they regarded Food for Thought as 'scientific' ('Does
it strike you as a scientific exhibition?'). Replies revealed not just visitors' thoughts
about Food for Tliought, but their ideas about what might be meant by 'scientific'.
To simplify somewhat, replies could almost all be classified as follows. A small min-
ority of visitors held the view that science was 'about physics and things like that',
and that by no stretch of the imagination could Food be regarded as 'scientific'.
Another minority seemed to find that it was unproblematically 'science' because they
readily accepted the view that science is 'in the everyday things too'. The replies of
other visitors, however, revealed ambivalence and negotiation. They often replied to
the effect that it had not struck them as a 'scientific' exhibition - and here they
identified science as difficult and distant as anticipated by the exhibition-makers -
but that they recognised that it was, or must be, in part or at some level. Discussion
among visitors showed them working through the ways in which Food for Thought
could be scientific, a process which often involved making distinctions between dif-
ferent 'levels of scientificness', or between 'real science' or 'pure science' and 'popular
science'. What seemed to be going on here was that visitors found their precon-
ceptions challenged by the exhibition and in response they began to rethink those
definitions. During this process, science was 'partitioned' and, in the invocation of
ideas such as 'pure' or 'real' science, 'science' proper was sometimes still moved
elsewhere, still out of the public's grasp. Nevertheless, the exhibition seemed to have
some power to challenge preconceptions of 'science', and this authority was one
which was drawn in large part from the location of the exhibition: several visitors
replied that the exhibition must, of course, be scientific because 'it's in the Science
Museum'.
 l 6 6 SHARON MACDONALD

But who did visitors see as the author of the exhibition? While the Science
Museum was a significant aspect of the public's framing of the exhibition, neither
the Museum nor its staff were usually identified as its 'writers'. The most predomi-
nant answer to our question 'Who do you think wrote this exhibition?' was 'Sainsbur-
ys' or 'Mr Sainsbury'. The cue that visitors picked up on here was the title of the
gallery - Food for Thought: the Sainsbury Gallery - and the Sainsburys reconstruction
at one of the exhibition's entrances. That visitors regarded a food industry company
as the writer of the exhibition might, presumably, raise questions as to the reliability
of the information displayed: might it be biased?27 Although some visitors did suggest
that there were aspects of the exhibition which might be biased because, as they
thought, it had been written by food industry representatives (for example, the omis-
sion of any mention of meat-stripping was pointed out by one) many seemed to
assume that 'bias' would take the form of fairly obvious 'advertising', and that it
would simply be a matter of the presence of the sponsor's name in the exhibition.
In other words, they seemed to regard it rather like sponsors' names on footballers'
shirts, rather than as something which might have considerable consequences for the
content of the exhibition itself. Given that they saw sponsorship in this way, it is
not surprising that most assumed that the 'advertising' involved was a fairly super-
ficial matter which they would detect with ease and decide whether to buy or not.
The following is just one example of this kind of reasoning:

Question: Do you think the fact that it's sponsored makes any difference?
Answer: Well, I suppose it's an advertisement for Sainsburys . . . probably because people
think . . . Well, food and Sainsburys are synonymous. But I shouldn't think it has
a bad effect, no. I would say it's a fairly neutral effect. I don't think people are
going to suddenly rush out and buy all the Sainsbury's things because they've seen
it. So that way it's not necessarily an advertisement.

This general (though not unanimous) notion, that authorship by the food industry
would only entail the industry giving its name and logo what prominence it could,
might seem to indicate that visitors regarded the content of the exhibition as fair
and uncontentious. Indeed, many made comments to this effect. Part of this, how-
ever, seemed again to relate to the authorizing power of science and of the Science
Museum (and also, the perceived respectability of Sainsburys). When we asked about
bias, visitors sometimes replied that 'scientists' would surely be involved, or that the
Science Museum would presumably have 'its watchdogs'.
Various other chapters in this book examine the issue of the public's understand-
ings of science and of scientific experts, and they illustrate both the activity of the
public's knowledge production - something very much in evidence here in visitors'
reconstructions of the exhibition - and the often careful and sceptical judgements
which the public may make within specific contexts. The example of sponsorship
 Authorising science 167

here might suggest that the majority of the public does not ask particularly searching
questions about the construction of scientific knowledge: they do not ask questions
about silences, specific juxtapositions, and possible 'underlying' messages. However,
we must remember context here too: we are dealing with family groups on a day
out. Critical dissection is not the operative context. What is more, however, a key
part of the context is the perceivedly benign and neutral nature of a public institution
such as a national museum: it is not a context in which the authority or balance of
the content is popularly perceived to be at issue.

Conclusions
This chapter has looked at issues surrounding the authorship and authorising of
science communications. However, the aim has not been to celebrate the authorial
role of those who might think of themselves as the authors, but to show how the
authorial presence of others, including 'science' itself, affects the final 'text' and the
readings of it. All definitions of 'science', 'understanding', and 'the public' take place
within a specific social and political context of which its users may be more or less
aware. Certain definitions, however, have more power to make themselves felt than
do others. The case-study points particularly to the definitional significance of the
institutional locus of the public representation. This is a pre-existing reality for the
science communicators, and feeds itself back into the reality which they are trying
to create in all kinds of ways. What is more, the very fact that a communication is
for 'the public', and that it embodies a specific vision of that public, shapes the kind
of representation made.
Studies of finished museum displays have frequently illustrated the hand of 'the
state' at work in the representations. Control of the public, and interests in main-
taining a particular status quo of class, gender, or ethnicity have all been described.28
While the case-study in this chapter clearly shows routes by which 'state' interests
make their way into communications intended for public consumption, it also shows
that these routes are neither straightforward nor simple, and that groups and individ-
uals with their own, possibly alternatively politicised, visions may deflect and redefine
some of those interests. Together with recognition of the roles that the many other
human and non-human actors may play,29 we are left, then, with a more hetero-
geneous and complex picture of the processes involved in creating a science com-
munication or museum exhibition. However, despite the contingencies, this is never
a fully random or unpatterned complexity, for some actors are imbued with greater
authority than others. The story of this chapter has been one of a relatively radical-
popular vision of 'public understanding of science' finding itself rewritten - by no
means wholly, but to some extent - by powerful ghost-writers; and finding itself
 l 6 8 SHARON MACDONALD

read - again, by no means wholly - by visitors whose frames of reference are often
drawn from alternative contexts.
A number of more specific comments can also be made about 'public understand-
ing of science' strategies. A key aim in this particular exhibition, as in other 'public
understanding of science' communications, was to make science accessible and to do
so through using simple language and through presenting science through familiar
contexts. While the visitor study clearly showed many visitors favourably contrasting
this with other exhibitions said to be 'full of incomprehensible jargon', it does not
necessarily follow that they came away either with a better understanding of science,
or more empowered to deal with it. Even a visitor who takes on board the idea that
'science is in everyday things too', as one put it, may still shift 'real science' -
difficult, formal, asocial science - elsewhere. Two other dangers may follow from
the representation of science as familiar and everyday. The first is that, although
the aim is generally to move beyond this and into more unfamiliar terrain, in practice,
amidst constraints of space, word-limits and so forth, the representation may well
not do so, or do so very little. In other words, it may end up saying very little that
is new to its audience, something suggested by some of Food for Thought's visitors.
The other and greater danger is that the strategy may actually lead visitors into not
asking questions, into a sense of security that the world of science is familiar; that
factory production is essentially like that which goes on every day in the home; that
there are no barriers around the big business worlds of food technology and distri-
bution. In other words, the domestication involved in strategies of familiarisation
and accessibility may act as a kind of intellectual narcotic. Might visitors have had
more challenging questions to ask about the role of the food industry and about
the content of the exhibition if it had included a realistic representation of, say,
meat-stripping? Science can be difficult and distant, it can be gendered and racist,
it can be hedged about with all kinds of barriers and vested interests. Understanding
this is 'public understanding of science' too; though the case-study suggests that
enlisting support to promote such understandings as these would not be easy within
the contexts within which a national museum must operate.
Similar questions might also be asked of the theme of 'choice', a theme related
to both the content and the structure of the exhibition. Like accessibility, 'choice'
was seen as essentially democratic, allowing the visitors rather than the scientists or
exhibition-makers to make the final decisions. However, choices had, of course, been
prefigured, so begging the question of what the choices were to be made between.
This message of choice, however, like that of familiarity, could give visitors a sense
of security that the representation was inevitably balanced and fair, and again lead
to a less, rather than more, critical approach.
These reflections are not intended to suggest that science communicators should
abandon attempts to be accessible or to offer more than single accounts or answers.
 Authorising science 169

They suggest, however, that neither accessibility nor choice is necessarily on its own
a solution to 'public understanding of science', and that more questions about con-
text, about authority, and about types of understanding still need to be asked. I
should emphasise that these questions have come out of the process of going through
visitors' words for many hours, reading the reviews, looking at and thinking about
the final exhibition in relation to its formative ideas and enthusiasms, and listening
to criticisms made of the exhibition by the team members themselves (criticisms
which I am sure were harsher and deeper than those which any exhibition-makers
satisfied with the maker's right to dictate display would have been), and after thinking
about questions raised by others and by debates in other academic contexts.30 They
are questions which might seem unfair given the extent to which Food for Thought
did challenge many expectations. However, it is important, I think, that we do raise
such questions, partly so that the communication strategies that have become labelled
'public understanding of science' do not simply become part of a new unselfconscious
canon. Just as we need to analyse what we mean by 'public', 'understanding', and
'science', we need also to see what particular assumptions, visions, and strategies -
not all of which necessarily have compatible outcomes - have come to nestle under
the 'public understanding of science' brand-name itself.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

This research was directed by Professor Roger Silverstone, Media Studies, Sussex University, to whom
special thanks are due both for his role in the research and for insightful comments on this particular
piece. The research was supported by the Science Policy Support Group and Economic and Social
Science Research Council under their 'Public Understanding of Science' programme; and was carried
out at the Centre for Research into Innovation, Culture and Technology (CRICT), Brunei University.
Considerable thanks are also due to the staff of the Science Museum, London, especially the now 'ex'
Food Team, for their immense forbearance and hospitality, and for comments on this chapter. I would
also like to thank Alan Irwin and Brian Wynne for a generous mix of constructive criticism, patience,
and encouragement; and Gordon Fyfe, Keele University, for helpful discussion. Problems in the chapter
remain, of course, my own.

NOTES

Cf. Silverstone, R., 'Communicating science to the public', Science, Technology and Human
Values 16, 1 (1991) 69-89. This article includes brief descriptions of early results from three
'Public Understanding of Science' projects which concerned science communication.
The extent to which they may be similar or different from other media is discussed in
Silverstone 'Communicating science', and also in Silverstone, R., 'Museums and the media:
a theoretical and methodological exploration', International Journal of Museum Management
and Curatorship, 7 (1988) 231-42; Silverstone, R., 'Heritage as media: some implications for
research', Heritage Interpretation Volume 2: the visitor Experience, edited by D. Uzzell
(London: Frances Pinter, 1989); Silverstone, R., 'The medium is the museum: on objects
170 SHARON MACDONALD

and logics in times and spaces', Museums and the Public Understanding of Science, edited by
J. Durant (London: Science Museum, 1992); and Morton, A., 'Tomorrow's yesterdays:
science museums and the future', The Museum Time-Machine, edited by R. Lumley
(London: Routledge/Comedia, 1988) pp. 128-143.
3. Figures on the visiting of science museums specifically are not compiled. However, research
on museum visiting in general suggests that some 68% of the population has visited a
museum in the last four years Merriman, N., 'Museum visiting as a cultural phenomenon',
The New Museology, edited by P. Vergo (London: Reaktion Books, 1989).
4. For description and discussion of some of these see J. Durant (ed.) Museums and the Public
Understanding of Science (London: Science Museum, 1992).
5. A fuller account of the making of the exhibition can be found in Macdonald S., and
Silverstone, R., Food for Thought - the Sainsbury Gallery: some issues involved in the making
of a science museum exhibition (Report, Centre for Research into Innovation, Culture and
Technology, Brunei University, London, 1990).
6. The Royal Society, The Public Understanding of Science, (London: Royal Society, 1985).
7. Lewenstein, B., 'The meaning of "public understanding of science" in the United States
after World War IF, Public Understanding of Science 1,1 (1992) 45-68.
8. Royal Society, Public Understanding, p. 9.
9. I should note that this is my classification of a larger number of categories actually
employed in the Royal Society report. The report's sub-division is as follows: '(i) private
individuals . . . (ii) individual citizens . . . (iii) people employed in skilled and semi-skilled
occupations . . . (iv) people employed in the middle ranks of management and in
professional and trade unions associations; and (v) people responsible for major
decision-making in our society, particularly those in industry and government. (Royal
Society, Public Understanding, p. 7).
10. Ibid, passim.
11. See Wynne, B., 'Knowledges in context', Science, Technology and Human Values 16 (1991)
in—121; and Ziman, J., 'Public understanding of science', Science, Technology and Human
Values 16 (1991) 99-105.
12. Wynne, B., 'Public understanding of science', in Handbook of Science and Technology Studies,
edited by S. Jasanoff, G. E. Markle, J. C. Peterson, and T. Pinch (London and Beverly
Hills: 1995) pp. 457-79-
13. Comment made during opening address to a conference on 'Museums and the Public
Understanding of Science', (London; Science Museum, April 1992).
14. Comment made by Mrs Thatcher at the opening of the Design Museum, London, July
1989; reported in, for example, Observer 23 July 1989.
15. Letter reprinted in Science Museum Review (London: Science Museum, 1987), p. 5.
16. Ibid.
17. Neil Cossons, spoken comment, April 1992. For histories of the Science Museum, and its
relationship to its public, see Day, L., 'A short history of the Science Museum', in Science
Museum Review (London: Science Museum, 1987) 14-18; Bedini, S., 'The evolution of
science museums,' Technology and Culture 6 (1965) 1-29; Butler, S., Science and Technology
Museums (Leicester University Press, 1992).
18. See also Macdonald, S., and Silverstone, R., 'Taxonomies, stories and readers: rewriting the
museums' fictions', Cultural Studies 4,2 (1990) 176— 91; and Macdonald, S., 'Un nouveau
"corps des visiteurs": musees et changements culturels', Publics et Musees 3 (1993) 13-27.
 Authorising science 171

19. See, for example, Gewertz D., and Errington, F., Twisted Histories, Altered Contexts
(Cambridge University Press, 1992).
20. Unless otherwise specified inverted commas signify terms or phrases used by the team.
21. On the theme of the visitor as child see Silverstone, R., 'Caff society on a voyage of
discovery', Times Higher Education Supplement (12 June 1992); and Macdonald, S., 'Un
nouveau'.
22. For some discussion of this see, for example, Saunier, D., 'Museology and scientific
culture', Impact of Science on Society 152 (1989) 337-53; and Macdonald, S., 'Cultural
imagining among museum visitors', Museum Management and Curatorship 11 (1992) 401-9.
23. Macdonald, S. and Silverstone, R., 'Science on display: the representation of scientific
controversy in museum exhibitions', Public Understanding of Science 1, 1 (1992): 69-87.
24. Macdonald S. and Silverstone R., 'Science on display'.
25. The visitor study was devised by Roger Silverstone, Gilly Heron, and myself and largely
carried out by Gilly Heron, who also carried out preliminary analysis of the data. A fuller
report of the visitor study is Macdonald, Museum Visiting: a Science Exhibition Case Study
(Department of Sociology and Social Anthropology, Keele University, Working Paper,
1993)-
26. Inverted commas in this section indicate terms or phrases used by visitors unless otherwise
specified. For more on these themes see Macdonald, S., Museum Visiting and Macdonald S.,
'Consuming science: public knowledge and the dispersed politics of reception among
visitors', Media, Culture and Society 17 (1995) 13-29.
27. For a discussion of sponsorship and bias in museum exhibitions see Kirby, S., 'Policy and
politics: charges, sponsorship, and bias', in The Museum Time-Machine, edited by R. Lumley
(London: Routledge/Comedia, 1988) pp. 89-101.
28. For some examples of analyses which make such illustrations particularly well, though often
subtly, see Bennett, T., 'The exhibitionary complex', New Formations 4 (1988) 73-102;
Haraway, D., 'Teddy bear patriarchy: taxidermy in the Garden of Eden, New York City,
1908-1936', Primate Visions, Haraway D. (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1989);
Hewison, R., The Heritage Industry (London: Methuen, 1987); and various chapters in
Lumley R. (ed.), The Museum Time-Machine (London: Routledge/Comedia, 1988).
29. The roles of physical non-human actors have not particularly been emphasised in this paper.
For an attempt to classify some of the types of roles which such actors may play see Star,
S. L., and Griesemer, J. R., 'Institutional ecology, "translations" and boundary objects:
amateurs and professionals in Berkeley's Museum of Vertebrate Zoology, 1907-1939', Social
Studies of Science 19 (1989) 387-420.
30. In particular, they have been informed by my own similar problems in writing ethnography,
problems which I have discussed in Macdonald, S., 'Anthropology dangerously close to
home: some problems of ethnography in a parallel context' (unpublished, M.S., 1991). See
also Macdonald, S., 'The museum as mirror' in Anthropology and Representation, edited by
A. Dawson, J. Hockey and A. James (Routledge, forthcoming). There is a considerable
literature in anthropology now on these 'post-modern' issues: for example Clifford, J., and
Marcus, G., Writing Culture (Berkeley, University of California Press, 1986); Marcus, G.,
and Fischer, M., Anthropology as Cultural Critique (Chicago University Press, 1986).
 8 Nature's advocates: putting science to
work in environmental organisations1
STEVEN YEARLEY

Environmentalism and the public's understanding of science

Since the late 1980s Britain has experienced a rapid rise in popular and media interest
in environmental matters. The level of public concern with green issues seemed
poised to reach truly unrivalled heights in 1989 when, in elections for the European
Parliament, the UK Green Party received nearly 15% of the poll. The tendency to
choose Green soon deserted the British voting public, but not before it had made a
strong impact on the other mainstream parties who quickly began to emphasise their
own environmental credentials.
Greening has been apparent elsewhere in society too. Advertisers have plundered
the environment's comic resources, with puns about 'greenness' achieving wide cur-
rency and with jokes around environmental themes being employed to sell all manner
of goods, from 'lid free' cars (convertibles) to 'nose-zone friendly' deodorants. Sports
commentators have shown equal flexibility in weaving accounts of climate change
into their remarks about unseasonably warm football matches as well as rain-affected
cricket fixtures. Environmental thrillers have once again begun to populate television
schedules and, for the late 1990s, Hollywood looks set to offer numerous environ-
mental spectaculars, particularly on rainforest themes. Given all these trends, one
can only assume that the public is increasingly familiar with certain aspects of
environmentalism, and that such topics as acid rain, the ozone layer, and the green-
house effect have attained daily currency. The penetration of these terms into every-
day culture is, I suggest, indicated by a 1992 poster campaign in the UK for Regal
cigarettes featuring a character (Reg) supposedly giving his views about topical issues,
the joke (at least in many cases) being that he misconstrues his theme. One poster
concerns his views on 'the greenhouse effect'. Under this heading Reg states simply
that his tomatoes seem to grow better under glass. The advert only makes sense if
 Nature's advocates 173

the public at large is assumed to understand that the greenhouse effect 'really' refers
to something else.
Many analytically significant questions arise from these shifts in public interest -
for example, to do with the long-term impact of green consumerism or with the fate
of ecological political parties. But, as the examples of global warming and ozone
depletion indicate, one of the most striking features is the way in which widespread
concern about environmental problems has brought a set of scientific issues to public
attention. Until recently, very few people would have heard talk of ozone outside of
the occasional chemistry class; now ozone features in jokes in television comedies
and in popular newspaper stories about, for instance, Prince Charles' purported ban-
ning of his wife's ozone-destroying aerosols.
For this reason the study of knowledge and beliefs about the environment offers
a key, topical example of the handling of science in the public realm. Of course,
given the many different ways in which people can become interested in developing
their knowledge about the environment, it would be wrong to assume that there is
just one set of processes at work. Thus, some members of the public have become
personally involved in environmental disputes, for example, over plans to mine gold
in the mountains in the west of Northern Ireland or to site an incinerator in Deny; 2
in their case ecological politics have typically led to a pressing need to acquire famili-
arity with a specific range of scientific and technical arguments. In other cases the
learning has been conducted in a much less urgent context, through general media
coverage or through the environmental clamourings of people's children.
Some knowledge of environmental issues has become important in a wide range
of occupations: from doctors alerted to the health effects of air pollution, through
electrical appliance retailers (having to face up to questions about appliances' energy
efficiency), to politicians who have generally wished to acquire enough expertise to
avoid well-publicised blunders, such as President Reagan's celebrated assertion that
trees are a major source of pollution.3 Politicians' awareness of these topics has been
reflected not only in their personal views, but also in the development of legislation
and in the work of official bodies such as select committees reporting on sundry
environmental issues. Lastly, environmental campaign groups have themselves been
seeking to raise the public's awareness of the issues. These groups together have
many hundreds of thousands of members just in the UK; their publicity material
and stories routinely make press and broadcast-media headlines. They explicitly seek
to influence public beliefs, and frequently publish 'briefings' on major issues such as
the safety of underground storage of nuclear waste or the feasibility of wind power.
And their views are backed up by a scientific warrant: the 'establishment' conser-
vation bodies (for example the Royal Society for Nature Conservation) have long had
a scientific ethos and large scientifically qualified staffs, but even the more radical
 174 STEVEN YEARLEY

groups now employ highly trained scientists on their campaign teams and com-
mission original academic research. Indeed Greenpeace's official biographers boast
that the organisation has equipped itself with the 'most sophisticated mobile labora-
tory in Europe'.4
These are just four of the routes by which public interest in the environment and
public awareness of science are linked, and in this chapter I will only have the oppor-
tunity to examine one of them. My analysis will focus on the operation of environmental
campaign groups and the way in which they offer to link scientific understanding to
environmental concerns. According to one widely publicised interpretation, scientific
investigation provides the facts upon which practical and policy decisions can be made -
science, it is said, 'speaks truth to power'.5 Particularly in the case of environmental
policy, where it is assumed that nature cannot speak for itself, scientific representations
of nature's needs might be seen as nature's stand-in. This study will look at the practi-
calities of trying to use science as nature's advocate.

Ambivalent responses to scientific authority

Anybody who hoped for a straightforward and harmonious relationship between
scientific understanding of ecological issues and agreement on the practical steps to
be taken will have been disappointed. One major cause of this disappointment has
been the ambivalence of many environmentalists vis-d-vis the scientific enterprise.
For one thing, many of our leading ecological problems can be seen as the result of
our technological civilisation. For example, it was scientific research which first pro-
duced the pesticides which have posed such a hazard to wildlife and environmental
quality since the 1960s.6 Similarly, the CFCs which threaten the ozone layer are not
naturally occurring chemicals; they were synthesised in scientific laboratories. In
these ways, scientists can be seen to have been collaborators in much of the ecological
destruction associated with our high-technology society. Many individual scientists
are also closely associated with particular projects which are frequently viewed as
environmentally damaging, such as nuclear power generation or intensive farming
practices. There is at least a potential clash for greens who may experience a scepti-
cism about the supposed benefits of scientific progress, but who are asked to accept
that science is the key to successfully representing nature.
In the face of these problems, some environmentalists have been attracted to ver-
sions of the green argument which are principally founded on non-scientific forms
of authority. For example, it is possible to seek to underpin an ecological worldview
in conventionally religious or other spiritual ways. People can claim to gain a knowl-
edge of nature's purposes and needs through this sort of inquiry.7 But in secular
Western societies these appeals can exercise only a limited attraction, and the princi-
pal form of legitimation in the leading environmental organisations remains that of
 Nature's advocates 175

scientific expertise. Even, as I have mentioned, such celebratedly anti-establishment

organisations as Greenpeace draw increasingly on scientific authority, with Green-
peace (UK) having appointed an academic scientist as its director of science in
London and Greenpeace International having established a laboratory at Queen Mary
College, University of London.8
Of course, this emphasis on the scientific legitimations for green arguments is not
to suggest that moral and ethical justifications are unimportant to environmentalism,
particularly in relation to the non-human world. During the late 1980s the vocabulary
of animal rights and animal welfare rapidly entered everyday language, indicating a fun-
damental change in common ways of considering animals, and signalling an expansion
in the kinds of beings held to have moral rights.9 But talk of rights has been most effec-
tive in promoting change in those cases where humans deliberately inflict suffering on
individual animals, for example during hunts, in the production of furs, or in the course
of animal experiments. Also, the vocabulary of'rights' is customarily applied to individ-
uals; rights of free speech, freedom of religious observance, and so on are attributed to
individuals or individually to all members of a population. It is less clear how rights
should be ascribed to abstract entities such as species or even the habitats which support
species. Arguments about rights may prevent cruelty to particular seals, but they do
not translate easily into firm guidance about the development of policies towards seal
communities; can - for example - individual seals be killed without infringing the com-
munity's rights?10 Furthermore, even if we take just those animals to which rights may
well be granted, one still needs to know what it is that those animals want to use their
rights for; once again, it is typically the job of scientific advocates to inform us what
animals need and want.
The common ambivalence about the authority to be accorded to science may even
tend towards antipathy among groups which are ideologically opposed to features of
our current technological civilisation and among animal welfare activists who find
that research scientists number among their campaign targets. In these cases, green
activists and supporters have often come to have a distrust of experts and of scientific
pronouncements. They are aware that reputable scientists have supported policies to
which these groups are opposed (such as nuclear power generation), and also that
governments and established interests often use demands for scientific proof as a way
of delaying practical action. In the UK the most conspicuous example of this strategy
was its use by the CEGB and - initially at least - government spokespersons as well,
to argue that there was no certain proof that acid emissions from UK power stations
were responsible for the acidification of lakes and the death of trees in Continental
Europe. Official agencies could protest that they were as concerned as anyone but,
until there was conclusive evidence that it was their power stations' waste gases
which caused the pollution, it would be irresponsible to spend taxpayers' money on
reducing emissions.11
 176 STEVEN YEARLEY

Once ambivalence shades into opposition, green groups face a serious difficulty.
They have good grounds for distrusting scientific authority, but have no other place
to turn for universalistic, definitive answers. Their own occasional impatience with
scientific procedures, arising from a desire to take prompt practical action and from
a distrust of the motives behind delays in arriving at officially recognised scientific
conclusions, opens them to attack from outside observers on the grounds that they
lack objectivity.12
Given that environmental campaigners themselves have a complex and ambivalent
attitude to scientific authority and the canons of scientific argument, it would be
unrealistic to suppose that the public presentations of the relationship between sci-
ence and ecological issues would not reflect these tensions. Environmentalists, offer-
ing themselves as nature's advocates, contribute a mixed message to the public's
understanding of science.
Indeed, so central is this tension within the greens' case that Beck has nominated
environmental protest as a prime example of the crisis he diagnoses in the modernist
world view, a crisis he terms 'reflexive modernisation'. In general terms this crisis
arises when modernist principles are destructively applied to themselves (that is,
reflexively). Beck chooses the environmental example because it displays the prob-
lems arising from the application of science to itself. Thus, for Beck, the systematic
application of critical analysis to scientific practice and the philosophy of science has
identified limitations in science's cognitive authority. In the acid rain case, for
example, scientific effort was invested in finding the cause of acid rain; at the same
time other scientists worked to demonstrate that science could not prove, beyond
reasonable doubt, that Scandinavian acid rain arose from Britain. As he expresses it:
science is involved in the origin and deepening of risk situations in civilization and a
corresponding threefold crisis consciousness. Not only does the industrial utilization of
scientific results create problems; science also provides the means - the categories and
the cognitive equipment - required to recognize and present the problems as problems
at all, or just not to do so. Finally, science also provides the prerequisites for
'overcoming' the threats for which it is responsible itself.13

There are two noteworthy features in Beck's formulation of this issue. First, he
presents the tension or 'paradox' as a problem for the legitimacy of science; at the
same time, however, as I have just argued, it is a problem for the legitimacy of
environmental campaigners' views. And, at least to date, given the imbalance of
power and authority between campaigners and official bodies, the difficulty has been
more acute for environmentalists wishing to change the status quo than for the auth-
orities and the establishment scientists seeking to maintain it. Second, his account
of the paradox presents it in a rather idealistic light. In other words, it appears that
science is driven to this self-critical position by the inescapable force of reason alone.14
However, an examination of the practical business of putting science to work in
 Nature's advocates 177

environmental organisations will allow us to appreciate the significance of social con-

text in generating this tension and in shaping the way it is handled.

Contrasting strategies for science as nature's advocate

In the light of these tensions and difficulties, it is only to be expected that the
treatment of scientific information and scientific authority would vary from one
environmental organisation to another. A large part of this variation can be under-
stood by referring to a distinction, made by some commentators, between 'environ-
mental' groups and 'conservation' organisations; typically, according to this view,
the former (such as Friends of the Earth (FoE)) work through campaigning to 'con-
front the negative effects on the environment of late-twentieth century society and
[to] try to ameliorate them'.15 For their part, the latter (including the Royal Society
for Nature Conservation (RSNC)) aim to conserve and enhance existing habitats and
species.
It is important not to exaggerate this dichotomy. The Royal Society for the Protec-
tion of Birds (RSPB), a clear candidate for the second group, could none the less
justly be said to have been established to confront the 'negative effects on the
environment' of late nineteenth-century society.16 In any case, organisations such as
the RSNC and the RSPB, as well as smaller bodies including Plantlife and the
Marine Conservation Society, are increasingly adopting a policy of campaigning.17
In large part this is because they recognise that it is often more cost-effective to
conserve land or habitats through lobbying for alterations in, for example, planning
procedures or the Common Agricultural Policy than by trying to raise money to buy
reserves - particularly since isolated reserves will be of little use to large mammals
or many birds, which feed over a large area and thus depend on the environmental
quality of surrounding farmland.
However, the dichotomy is revealing in one way: conservation groups typically
have a background in natural history, and their membership has generally been domi-
nated by scientists and amateur naturalists. As a result their ethos was different from
that of the environmental groups which started off in the late 1960s and early 1970s
as groups critical of contemporary Western society.18 This difference in background
and ethos has significant implications for these groups' approach to science and
scientific authority. A brief introduction to the RSNC will illustrate the part played
by science in its ethos and practice.
Founded with an elite scientific membership just before the First World War as
a Society for the Promotion of Nature Reserves (SPNR), the Society's initial objec-
tive was to encourage the protection of sites of importance for natural history. Such
reserves were for 'the enjoyment of lovers of wild nature, the pursuit of scientific
knowledge, and the well-being of the community in general'; where these objectives
 178 STEVEN YEARLEY

threatened to clash, the Society favoured scientific priorities.19 The Society's influ-
ence grew, particularly because in the 1940s the government invited it to assist in
developing a strategy for national nature conservation; accordingly, in Lowe's words,
in mid-century the 'ecologists gradually assumed the leadership of the conservation
movement'.20 This position was consolidated in 1949 with the formal establishment
of the Nature Conservancy (the 'first official science-based environmental conservation
agency in the world'21), the membership of whose leading council overlapped strongly
with that of the SPNR. The Society and the various official nature conservation
bodies have remained close ever since, in particular sharing an emphasis on the use
of scientific criteria in assessing conservation merit. The flavour of legislation has
also been decisively shaped along these lines, with the most ubiquitous conservation
designation in the UK being the Site of Special Scientific Interest (SSSI).
The Society also experienced a second significant institutional development. In
the post-war period, through to the 1960s, there was a rapid growth in the number
of county Wildlife Trusts, regional bodies associated with the Society, but chiefly
concerned with local nature conservation, reserve acquisition, and site management.
The SPNR became the national co-ordinating body for these groups and accordingly
changed its name (by a two-stage process in 1977 and 1981), to the RSNC. These
Trusts took on much of the ethos of the central body being dominated in the early
stages by natural historians, scientists, and enthusiasts. Although not as closely bound
to the science of ecology as the RSNC and the Nature Conservancy (later the Nature
Conservancy Council (NCC)), the Trusts retained a scientific ethos. Initially run by
volunteers, they were dominated by people with a scientific understanding of, and
interest in, wildlife, a characteristic which lent the Trusts important strengths, but
also weaknesses.

The practicalities of a scientific ethos

The benefits which organisations derive from a scientific ethos are essentially twofold.
First, their scientific standing, supplied by the academic scientists and civil servants
who serve as volunteer members and - increasingly - by scientifically trained staff,
has enabled the RSNC and the Trusts to deal in an authoritative manner with the
Department of the Environment (DoE), the NCC, and local authorities. They have
shared many of the same objectives and concerns; staff have moved from one sector
to the other; and the DoE and NCC have been happy to let the Trusts engage in
reserve management, and have even leased reserves to them. Even when there has
been disagreement (for example over the DoE's willingness to sacrifice certain SSSIs
to developers), the official bodies have had to recognise the expertise of the voluntary
groups; it has not been possible to dismiss their arguments as scientifically ill-
informed. Overall, organisations such as the RSNC and RSPB have enjoyed good
 Nature's advocates 179

relations with official conservation agencies, underwritten by respect and friendship

between their respective staffs. As Tim Cordy, chief executive of the RSNC,
acknowledged, these organisations tread a fine line: 'It is crucial that the voluntary
sector works with government, but not for it.'22
The character of the voluntary conservation bodies has also yielded financial ben-
efits. For one thing, since they undertake projects similar to those which official
agencies have to carry out, and since they tend to do them relatively cheaply, the
organisations have been eligible for a good deal of grant aid. In the case of some
Trusts and various 'Link' organisations (which co-ordinate conservation bodies'
work) government grants of various sorts constitute the great majority of their
income; indeed, so great was the apparent funding for the County Trust for Northern
Ireland (the Ulster Wildlife Trust (UWT)) that a speaker from the Northern Ireland
DoE joked at a UWT meeting in 1988 that the Trust would soon be a greater drain
on government finances than the then state-owned and ailing shipyard.23
Good scientific standing also offers a further avenue for income generation
through the sale of expert advice. Trusts affiliated to the RSNC have been among
the leaders in developing consultancy services, whether providing environmentally
sensitive landscaping advice to schools and hospitals or preparing environmental
statements for developers. Environmental consultancy is a doubly important area of
work for green groups. It earns them good, 'free' money (not tied to government
departments) and, second, the Trusts and similar groups believe that, if they perform
the work themselves, this will maximise benefits to the environment since they view
their own consultancy advice as single-mindedly wildlife friendly.
The practicalities do not, though, all work in the same, positive direction. The
scientific ethos of conservation organisations may result in tasks which demand scien-
tific expertise (surveying, field observation, reserve management) taking precedence.
Scientifically trained and oriented staff are likely to feel happier doing this kind of
work than campaigning or lobbying, even though, as noted above, in many instances
campaigning may be a more cost-effective approach to nature conservation than
direct intervention (that is, managing or acquiring sites, a labour-intensive
undertaking). In conservation groups, in which chairpersons, many directors, and
some development officers have come from a scientific background, there will not
tend to be a ready familiarity with managerial, fund-raising, and publicity skills.
Moreover, because friendship networks typically revolve around people's occupations
and interests, predominantly scientific groups may have few acquaintances in man-
agement or commerce on whose help they can call.
This disjunction between a primarily scientific and an organisational outlook can
be especially acute in relation to the setting of campaign priorities. Natural historians
will typically have their own conservation priorities, based on rarity or on scientific
interest. These priorities will not necessarily coincide with the issues best calculated
 l 8 o STEVEN YEARLEY

to excite public interest and media attention; put bluntly, while a drab plant may
be endangered or be botanically exhilarating, majestic colourful birds offer the best
'photo-opportunities'. The tensions involved in attempting to meet these conflicting
demands were exemplified during discussions among members of the UWT's scien-
tific committee; in considering which issues to highlight in promotional material,
they moved on from considering suggestions for badger week and otter campaigns
to muse on the possibility of slug week and rat year. These jokes are a symptom of
an anxiety that promotional needs - the organisational requirement to find a popular,
newsworthy campaign target - will be elevated above scientific priorities. Similar
concerns may arise in the case of publicity material too. When the RSNC unveiled
its revised badger logo, some naturalists were more concerned with the uncertain
sexual identity of the pictured badger than with its likely public-relations value. Such
concerns are further attested to by naturalists' humour, in this case a proposal that
the UWT's slogan should be: 'protecting your local biotopes'.
Such tensions between different aspects of these organisations with contrasting
objectives are likely to be intensified by current trends in the environmental move-
ment. Increasingly, environmental organisations are having to compete with each
other to gain public attention and support, and for this reason it is important to be
associated with leading, newsworthy issues. The background to this competition is
quite straightforward. The pressure groups are not quite like businesses competing
for market share: they co-operate a good deal, and members are not exactly like
customers since they may well subscribe to several groups. Of course, ordinary mem-
bers will limit their subscriptions at some point, but the real competition is for major
sponsors - increasingly, companies, but also charitable trusts - who only have speci-
fied budgets to disburse. Under these competitive conditions, fund-raising and pub-
licity success is to some degree self-perpetuating: firms will fund campaigns which
have a high profile, a profile further heightened by this backing. No groups can
afford to miss out on these important market opportunities. Moreover, such compe-
tition operates to concentrate more attention on the highest-profile issues (such as
the rainforests, the conservation of attractive species, and so on) and can leave other
environmental issues 'orphaned'.
Both the RSPB and the RSNC have responded to the challenge: the former by
following birds along migration routes and away into the rainforests, thus associating
their organisation with high-profile, international environmental issues, and the latter
by identifying itself with cherished members of Britain's wildlife and with country-
side values.
In summary, the conservation groups are increasingly having to follow a commer-
cial and market-oriented logic which leads to different policies and priorities than
would follow from a narrowly scientific interest in conservation. Thus, they are being
led away from a 'purely' scientific vision of the environmentalist's project not, as
 Nature's advocates 181

Beck might have anticipated, by the corrosive rationality of reflexive modernity, but
by the perceived demands of competitive pressure-group politics. These recent
trends have had a large impact on scientifically dominated nature conservation
groups.

Environmentalism without a scientific ancestry

In essence, 'environmental' organisations lack both the weaknesses and the strengths
outlined above. Thus, even had they wished to, they could not have enjoyed such
close, practical co-operation with official agencies as has the RSNC. Nor have they
been able to earn their green pounds in the same ways. They have, however, been
more able to respond to certain market forces, particularly the 'markets' of public
opinion and of media coverage; Greenpeace in particular has been very astute in
managing news coverage of its campaigns. Crucially for my argument, these organis-
ations have had more freedom to be critical of scientific opinion and expert judge-
ment. They have often given voice to the idea that scientific evidence is manipulated
by official agencies, and that government-commissioned scientists have asked the
wrong sorts of questions. In their report to mark the twenty-first birthday of British
Nuclear Fuels, FoE cite, with heavy irony, the BNFL chairman's claim that 'Techni-
cally, we know how to deal with the waste'; the report then goes on to list doubts,
misgivings, and accidents which underline the ironic tone.24 The supposedly scientific
and technical statements of officialdom are seen as commonly containing a political
agenda, and as a reflection of how the authorities wish an issue to be viewed.
That they have felt able to criticise the scientific establishment does not imply
that environmental groups have been free of campaigning constraints; Friends of
the Earth (FoE), for example, has been studied in its avoidance of party-political
partisanship. But, since scientific study of the natural world is of less inherent appeal
to their supporters, since the organisation's work depends more on campaigning than
on surveying and management, and since these groups refuse to engage in con-
sultancy work, they can retain some distance from science.
However, in its turn, this distance may result in difficulties. In some cases, the
information necessary for campaigning can be straightforwardly derived. Thus in the
celebrated case of (UK) FoE's popular and successful campaign against CFC-driven
aerosols (in 1988-9) it was enough to argue that, if American firms could withdraw
CFCs from deodorants and other spray-can products, then so could British ones.25
An identical argument was used in the late 1980s by Greenpeace against Ford's
failure to fit catalytic convertors or other emission control systems on its British
models. Borrowing the company's own slogan ('Ford gives you more'), the Green-
peace campaign pointed out that a Ford car in Britain gives vastly more toxic
pollution than one bought in the USA because of the company's response to the
 182 STEVEN YEARLEY

different pollution control regulations.26 Essentially in both cases the argument is

about double standards. If something is technically possible in one developed
country, it must be equally possible in Britain. The argument does not need to
appeal to any external indicators of correctness.
When it comes to contested scientific information, these groups are in a less
comfortable situation. Thus, on 12 August 1990 a programme was broadcast on
Channel 4 in the UK casting doubt on the reality of global warming as a result of
the greenhouse effect. It set out to question belief in warming, and implied that
climate scientists might be led into making exaggerated claims about climate change
because the existence of such a threat would make it easy to acquire the resources
for their research programmes.27 In the FoE Local Groups Newsletter a staff member
attacked the broadcast by appealing to the weight of majority scientific opinion. The
testimony of 'around a dozen dissident scientists' had to be weighed against the
views of the 300 or so scientists who 'wrote and peer reviewed' the report to the
Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC).28 The article went on to bolster
this argument by rhetorically pointing out that the IPCC scientists could hardly be
portrayed: 'as a raving bunch of eco-anarchist nutcases. Some would say they are
a cautious bunch, wary of hard-won scientific reputations and not prone to wild
exaggeration'.29 The artful use of the expression 'some would say' seems to imply
that this opinion is universally shared, rather than just being the view of FoE.
No doubt it is quite reasonable for FoE's supporters to argue in this way. But
the point arising from this example is that FoE has no scientific evidence of its
own to use in settling this controversy. FoE's best argument is just that the most
well-informed scientific opinion is on their side. They find themselves invoking the
'consensus of scientific opinion' to overcome the TV journalists' deconstructive argu-
ments - exactly the opposite of strategies environmentalists have themselves deployed
in other contexts (for example, against the official consensus on the supposed safety
of nuclear installations).
We have already seen how those organisations with a scientific ethos have been
altered by the growing demands of competition. We can anticipate a corresponding
change in this second type of environmental group which is likely to be affected by
growing scientific and technical competence. As technical expertise increases, confi-
dence grows in one's ability to win arguments through persuasion, and this may lead
groups to adopt a less strident campaign style; in his study of the British green
movement, McCormick notes that through the 1980s Greenpeace became 'less con-
frontational, and more inclined to use the same tactics of lobbying and discreet
political influence once reserved by the more conservative groups'.30 But campaign
groups have, so to speak, already lost their innocence about the neutrality of 'pure'
scientific reasoning; they have, in Beck's terms, already experienced this aspect of
the 'crisis' of late modernity.
 Nature's advocates 183

Given their familiarity with the shortcomings and ambiguity of scientific evidence,
and given their distrust of parts of the scientific establishment and of the authorities'
use of science, they cannot be expected to embrace the path of campaigning through
expert argument. But this means that there is no single approach for them to adopt.
Admittedly, they can appeal to certain novel methodological principles, such as the
'precautionary principle': the principle which stipulates that new substances or new
processes should only be used once they have been shown to be harmless. But even
then there will be room for negotiation and controversy about the 'proof that, say,
substance X is harmless. Accordingly, the likeliest outcome is that campaign organis-
ations will adopt a flexible approach, a mix of academic science and pragmatism,
informed by their experience of what makes for campaign success. As a graphic
example, it seems extremely unlikely, whatever marine scientists found out about
whale populations or whatever claims came to be made about whales' lack of intelli-
gence, that campaigners' opposition to whaling would decline.
Such pragmatic epistemological flexibility is, in any case, further encouraged by
practical limitations on the use of scientific knowledge in the service of campaigning.
For one thing, even groups which have a large scientific staff or can count on assist-
ance from sympathetic academic researchers find that they cannot gain access to all
the information they would like. They do not have the budgets to subscribe to all
the publications they might desire, nor can they maintain extensive libraries. In any
case, academic science - even in ecology - will not necessarily generate the kinds
of research they would like to see done. One final dilemma confronts the large organ-
isations which conceivably would have the resources to undertake some research.
For example, the RSPB has obligations to spend money on its reserves and on
practical bird conservation, while Greenpeace needs to fund its campaigns and its
ships. Against such practical and pressing expenditures, a research budget is hard
to justify.
In consequence, such organisations are dependent on scientific knowledge pro-
duced by other persons or agencies, knowledge which is suited to the objectives and
agenda of those other groups. Even if it were attractive for environmental groups
to try to take on the mantle of green science, they would be confronted by severe
practical restrictions.31

Conditioning the way science is put to work

For green organisations, it is clearly a major practical challenge to work out how to
treat scientific knowledge claims and how to deal with scientific expertise. In their
various ways, depending on their ethos, ancestry, and current mission, these groups
have to both use and criticise scientific logic, the paradigm of cognitive modernity.
We have examined several of the tensions and paradoxes to which this gives rise.
 184 STEVEN YEARLEY

However, in most of the instances analysed so far it has more or less been left to
the organisations themselves to figure out their response to these tensions. Thus,
Wildlife Trusts can make their own judgements about the scientific value of their
nature reserves; FoE can formulate its own stance on the conflicting evidence about
global warming.
However, in certain significant institutional contexts, these groups have much less
control over the handling of, say, scientific evidence on the emission of acidic gases
or on threats to indigenous wildlife. Two institutions are of particular importance,
both in terms of their public prominence and because of the way they have focused
attention on the tensions inherent in the treatment of scientific expertise. They are
the media and the law.

The media
Turning first to the media, it is clear that they frequently feature environmental
news. The appeal of such news is described by Lowe and Morrison, who point out
that:
At the editorial level, a major attraction of environmental issues is that they are public
interest issues of a non-partisan nature. Thus they provide an important outlet for
campaigning and investigative journalism even for newspapers which take a typically
conservative stance on other matters and for broadcasting services striving for a
'balanced' view.32

Media interest in the environment has made a great contribution to the recent
upsurge of public concern about green issues. But the media have their own
demands, preferring certain themes and stories over others. These preferences have
acted to shape the public face of environmental campaigning. For example, media
interest tends to reinforce the accent on the photogenic and the picturesque.33 Some
environmental groups have responded better than others to the demands for media-
friendly campaigns. Typically also, the mass media will seek comment on an issue
when programme makers perceive that issue as newsworthy, rather than at the point
when green groups have the technical information prepared to their own satisfaction.
This fact has had an impact on environmentalists' attitude to their scientific prep-
aration, sometimes leading campaigners to calculate how little knowledge they can
'get away with', rather than seeking to be as exhaustively knowledgeable as possible.
Media conventions can also influence how debates are handled and develop. Thus,
the documentary and news formats encourage a presentation of environmental issues
as a balanced debate between two 'sides': for example, for and against nuclear power
generation or for and against flue gas desulphurisation. In this way, competing views
which insiders regard as very unequally matched may be accorded similar levels of
respect. Media treatment can occasionally have very far-reaching consequences for a
 Nature's advocates 185

controversy, as was the case with a plant-growth regulator known as Alar. The sub-
stance's manufacturer and the US Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) were
engaged in a protracted disagreement about exactly how (un)safe this chemical was,
when a 'public interest science' group, the Natural Resources Defense Council
(NRDC) released its own results, indicating that the danger was hundreds of times
greater than even the EPA had proposed. These findings were publicised on a nation-
wide news broadcast, resulting in a huge public outcry: 'Within months, [the manu-
facturer] concluded that it would no longer be profitable to keep Alar on the market
and announced that it would voluntarily withdraw the product.'34 In this case, media
publicity overrode the processes of technical debate, ensuring that only the NRDC's
assessments of risk counted.
Although this case is an extreme one, it illustrates my point that agencies external
to green groups can decisively shape the public presentation and credibility of their
scientific arguments. Accordingly, environmentalists fashion their treatment of scien-
tific and technical considerations, not only in the light of the perceived strengths and
weaknesses of scientific styles of reasoning, but also with regard to the way that
influential external agencies are likely to handle these matters.

The law
The way in which legal institutions condition the use of science varies from country
to country. In the USA, where official actions are routinely open to legal review, the
law's influence has been very great; in Britain its impact has been less pronounced.
As Jasanoff has demonstrated, US legal review has affected not only the substance
of environmental policy, but also the way that scientific arguments are deployed in
making and defending decisions.35
In essence, the adversarial legal process is geared towards the deconstruction of
people's arguments; scientific judgements, as much as any other, have fallen prey to
this deconstruction. Since scientific decisions do not follow a mechanical, routine
method, but depend on the skilled exercise of expert judgement, legal examiners
have repeatedly found it possible to find conflicting opinions about any controversial
scientific matter (whether nuclear power plants are safe, whether pesticides cause
cancer, and so on); they have also been able to show that individual experts' opinions
depend on judgements which cannot be defended by appeal to straightforward and
transcendental principles. In other words, it has been possible to make scientific
views appear like 'mere' opinion.36 In this sense, the adversarial legal process has
been able to practise (destructive) reflexive modernisation on science (even if science
has not done it to itself).
The responses to this fact have been varied. In the USA the EPA has adopted
what may appear to be an ironic strategy: 'Under continual assault from political
adversaries, EPA's environmental science has more and more justified itself in terms
 l 8 6 STEVEN YEARLEY

of its legal, institutional, and procedural underpinnings rather than the truth-value
of the facts it alleges.'37 Jasanoff also notes a repeated tendency for the authorities to
try to separate out the 'science' from the 'policy' elements in environmental judge-
ments. However this undertaking was constantly undermined by the acknowledge-
ment that the two things were inseparable: thus, apparently factual procedures for
recognising whether a substance was liable to induce cancer were influenced by
assessments of how much potential for error was acceptable. The fusion of scientific
and policy principles was indicated by the fact that EPA presented the same prin-
ciples to different administrative audiences as scientific fact, on one occasion, and as
policy proposals, on the other.38 These legal examinations of scientific arguments
about the environment had a double impact. First, they served to throw doubt on
the credibility of specific scientific claims. Second, they revealed in a very public
forum the inherently negotiated character of the 'proper' boundaries of science, indi-
cating that the very identity of science itself is socially constructed.
Given the more informal regulatory procedures prevalent in the UK, these issues
have not come so clearly to light. However, scientific evidence offered by environ-
mentalists has come to grief at the hands of solicitors' deconstructive arguments.
Moreover, conservation groups' attempts to derive income from consultancy work
have also suffered embarrassment at the hands of solicitors when their clients' devel-
opment proposals have gone to court. That the consultants have a presumptive inter-
est in conservation (due to their institutional affiliation) has been exploited by lawyers
to suggest that the expert testimony is not impartial, but, in fact, slanted towards
their groups' campaign interests. In one such case, the Ulster Wildlife Trust's rep-
resentatives were angered that the impartiality of their testimony was called into
question; they insisted that they had carried out a purely scientific survey. Here
again, the scientific ethos of the organisation has left it exposed to external criticism.39
Legal examination has therefore had a large impact on certain specific environmen-
tal judgements. But the nature of adversarial cross-questioning has also led to the
public exposure of apparent weaknesses in the scientific basis of environmental argu-
ments, and has called into question the exact boundaries of science itself. Lawyers
have refined and consolidated their methods for challenging scientific evidence,
whether it derives from official agencies, such as the EPA, from industry, or from
campaign organisations. For this reason, the legal advocates have been even more
influential than the media in exposing the tensions in, and weaknesses of, science as
nature's metaphorical advocate.

Conclusion

In modern Western societies it is accepted that wildlife and the natural environment
need advocates; scientific expertise has emerged as the form of advocacy which
 Nature's advocates 187

commands the greatest legitimacy. A scientific interest in nature also motivates many
supporters of conservation organisations, while the organisations themselves harness
scientific expertise for practical tasks such as reserve management and the monitoring
of biodiversity. But science's advocacy role is far from straightforward.
For one thing, many supporters of environmentalism have misgivings about our
scientific civilisation and about the social benefits which supposedly derive from
science and technology. Problems have also arisen with voluntary organisations'
deployment of science: in the case of nature conservation organisations a dominant
scientific ethos has tended to lead to managerial and administrative difficulties while,
for campaigning groups, increasing reliance on scientific expertise has exposed a
potential conflict with their scepticism about official science.
In these ways environmental groups have experienced something akin to the
reflexive modernity of which Beck wrote. These challenges to the practical sufficiency
and to the universal validity of science have been amplified by the workings of two
external social institutions: the media and the law. Both these institutions have acted
in a twofold way on the role played by science in environmental debates. First, they
have both offered challenges to the way ecological evidence is interpreted; thus, for
example, the law has repeatedly been used to question the validity of the EPA's
rulings on risk, while the media have been able to focus public and political attention
on sensational - but possibly minority - views. Second, both institutions have called
into doubt the exact boundaries of scientists' competence. Jasanoff showed how,
under legal examination, the EPA drew the boundaries between science and policy
in a variety of ways. Media attention too has questioned and blurred the boundaries
around legitimate science.
In conclusion, therefore, we can see that the experiences of environmental and
conservation organisations highlight many of the problematic aspects of attempting
to employ scientific expertise in areas of public concern. These groups have tried to
promote the public understanding of environmental (and thus often scientific) issues
and to make the public more aware of the arguments about the value and trustworthi-
ness of expertise. From the practical experiences of environmental organisations
reviewed in this chapter, it appears that there is no single, simple way of harnessing
scientific expertise to the public interest; groups need to strike a pragmatic balance
between accepting and denying the overriding validity of science. Moreover, the
systematic and legal-rational examination of scientific evidence and judgement, par-
ticularly when conducted in public fora, is increasingly leading to the weakening of
science's practical authority and of its claims to transcendental validity.
In this sense, my conclusion is a post-modern one: environmental controversies
have encouraged the development of reflexive modernity, an attitude which fits with
environmental campaigners' pragmatism. But we can also see that the way this pro-
cess has taken shape depends on the character of the predominant environmental
 STEVEN YEARLEY

groups in any country, on its legal and administrative system, and on its media. The
practical utility of science and the public perception of its validity and adequacy are
not determined by any logic of post-modernity, but by the practical decisions made
by campaign organisations, and by the procedures adopted by the media and by
nations' legal authorities.

NOTES

1. The research reported in this chapter was supported by an award (A0925 0006) from the
ESRC and Science Policy Support Group under the Public Understanding of Science
Initiative. I should like to thank all those members of environmental groups and other
respondents who gave time to be interviewed and observed during my research work, a
two-year participant observation and interview study of non-governmental environmental
groups in Northern Ireland. The study was supplemented with analyses of the corresponding
groups in Great Britain and with published analyses of environmental politics in other
countries.
2. See respectively, Allen R., and Jones, T., Guests of the Nation (London: Earthscan, 1990) p.
78 and Allen, R., Waste Not, Want Not (London: Earthscan, 1992), pp. 3-37.
3. See Green M., and MacColl, G., There He Goes Again: Ronald Reagan's reign of error (New
York: Pantheon, 1983) p. 99, where the then President is quoted, from the journal Sierra,
stating that 'Approximately 80 per cent of our air pollution stems from hydrocarbons released
by vegetation.'
4. Brown M., and May, J., The Greenpeace Story (London: Dorling Kindersley, 1989), p. 150.
5. On this metaphor see Jasanoff, S., 'Science, politics, and the renegotiation of expertise at
EPA', Osiris 7 (1992) 1-23, on p. 2.
6. Nicholson, M., The New Environmental Age (Cambridge University Press, 1987), pp. 46-51.
7. See the discussion in Spretnak, C , and Capra, F., Green Politics: the Global Promise
(London: Paladin, 1985) pp. 230-58.
8. This ambivalence is examined further in Yearley, S., 'Green ambivalence about science:
legal-rational authority and the scientific legitimation of a social movement', British Journal of
Sociology 43 (1992) pp. 511-32, where Greenpeace UK's appointment is also discussed; on
the QMC laboratory see Pearce, F., Green Warriors: the people and the politics behind the
environmental revolution (London: Bodley Head, 1991), p. 39.
9. See Dobson, A., Green Political Thought (London: Unwin Hyman, 1990) p. 38, and Warren,
M. A., 'The rights of the non-human world', Environmental Philosophy, edited by R. Elliot
and A. Gare (Milton Keynes: Open University Press) pp. 109-34.
10. See Wenzel, G., Animal Rights, Human Rights (University of Toronto Press, 1991).
11. The unfolding of this argument is discussed in A. Irwin, 'Acid pollution and public policy:
the changing climate of environmental decision-making', Atmospheric Acidity: sources,
consequences and abatement, edited by M. Radojevic and R. Harrison (Amsterdam: Elsevier,
1992) pp. 549-70-
12. See Yearley, 'Green ambivalence' and, as an example, North, R., 'Greenpeace: still credible?',
The Independent, 21 September 1987, p. 15.
13. Beck, U., Risk Society: towards a new modernity (London: Sage, 1992) pp. 156 and 163.
14. This point is also made by Scott Lash and Brian Wynne in their introduction to Beck's
volume, where they suggest that it is (unwise but) possible to argue that 'the religion of
 Nature's advocates 189

science secularizes itself, is pushed through the barriers of its own precommitments by the
impetus of criticism built into [its] social structure', p. 6.
15. Dobson, Green Political Thought, p. 3.
16. The RSPB, which celebrated its centenary in 1989, originated as a campaigning organisation
opposed to the heedless killing of birds for the feather trade. By the middle of this century it
had turned into the body for bird enthusiasts which essentially it still remains, although see
below. On its history see Samstag, T., For Love of Birds (Sandy, Bedfordshire: RSPB, 1988),
and Yearley, S., The Green Case: a sociology of environmental arguments, issues and politics
(London: Routledge, 1992) pp. 61-7.
17. Yearley, The Green Case, pp. 56-61.
18. For all practical purposes Greenpeace was founded in 1971 and Friends of the Earth in
1970; see Yearley, The Green Case, pp. 67-9, and Lowe, P., and Goyder, J.,
Environmental Groups in Politics (London: Allen and Unwin, 1983) pp. 124-37. See also
Beck, Risk Society, p. 162.
19. The words of the SPNR cited in Sheail, J., Nature in Trust: the history of nature conservation
in Britain (Glasgow: Blackie, 1976) p. 62; on the pre-eminence of scientific considerations see
Lowe, P., 'Values and institutions in the history of British nature conservation', Conservation
in Perspective, edited by A. Warren and F. B. Goldsmith (Chichester: John Wiley, 1983) pp.
329-52, especially p. 341.
20. Lowe, 'Values and institutions', p. 342.
21. Nicholson, The New Environmental Age, p. 95, emphasis added.
22. Cordy, T., 'A manifesto of commitment', in the RSNC's magazine Natural World (Autumn
1991), 5. The organisation is now known as 'The Wildlife Trust'.
23. For more on the Ulster Wildlife Trust see Yearley, S., and Milton, K., 'Environmentalism
and direct rule: the politics and ethos of conservation and environmental groups in Northern
Ireland', Built Environment 16 (1990) 192-202, especially 195.
24. Friends of the Earth, British Nuclear Fools pic (London: FoE Ltd., 1992), p. 9.
25. Friends of the Earth, The Aerosol Connection (London: FoE Ltd., 1989).
26. The Guardian, 27 October 1988, p. 5.
27. Channel 4, The Greenhouse Conspiracy (London: Channel Four Television, 1990) p. 27.
28. Dilworth, A., 'Global warming', FoE Local Groups Newsletter, no. 186, September 1990, p.
19.
29. Ibid.
30. See McCormick, J., British Politics and the Environment (London: Earthscan, 1991) p. 158.
31. For more on these practical limitations see Yearley, 'Green ambivalence', and Cramer, J.,
Mission-Orientation in Ecology: the case of Dutch fresh-water ecology (Amsterdam: Rodopi,
1987) pp. 49-62.
32. Lowe, P., and Morrison, D., 'Bad news or good news: environmental politics and the mass
media', Sociological Review 32 (1984) 75-90, on 80; see also Lowe, P., and Flynn, A.,
'Environmental politics and policy in the 1980s', The Political Geography of Contemporary
Britain, edited by J. Moran (London: Macmillan, 1989) pp. 255-79, especially p. 269.
33. Lowe and Morrison, 'Bad news', 81.
34. Jasanoff, S., 'American exceptionalism and the political acknowledgment of risk', Daedalus
119 (1990) 61-81, on 74.
35. Ibid., and also her 'Science, politics, and the renegotiation of expertise at EPA', Osiris 7
(1992) 1-23, and 'Cross-national differences in policy implementation', Evaluation Review 15
(1991) 103-19.
190 STEVEN YEARLEY

36. See Year ley, S., 'Bog standards: science and conservation at a public inquiry', Social Studies
of Science, 19 (1989) 421-38.
37. Jasanoff, 'Science, politics, and the renegotiation of expertise at EPA', 3.
38. Ibid., 13.
39. This case is reported in Yearley, S., 'Skills, deals and impartiality: the sale of environmental
consultancy skills and public perceptions of scientific neutrality', Social Studies of Science 22
(1992) 435— 53. See also Yearley, S., 'The environmental challenge to science studies', in
Handbook of Science and Technology Studies edited by S. Jasanoff, G. E. Markle, J. C.
Petersen, and T. Pinch. (London and Beverly Hills: 1995), pp. 457~79-
 9 Proteins, plants, and currents:
rediscovering science in Britain
HARRY ROTHMAN, PETER GLASNER,
AND CAMERON ADAMS

Introduction
As discussed in previous chapters, one important dimension of the contemporary
public understanding of science is the heterogeneity of scientific knowledges and
understandings. Whilst conventional perspectives portray science as a unitary and
coherent body of knowledge and expertise, the accounts in this book have typically
stressed the diverse character of science as it is encountered by various publics. In
looking to the future development of science-public relations it is important also that
we consider the changes which are currently affecting modern science - not least
because these will help form the new context for these relations. In a book devoted
to the linkages between science and the public we therefore need to examine the
various and shifting understandings of science within the scientific community.
Accordingly, this chapter seeks to identify how science is contextualised by aca-
demic scientists, administrators, industrialists, and members of some environmental
organisations, and distinguishes between the various, and largely disparate, 'under-
standings' of strategic science held and enacted in the civil sector of British science.
It is based on an investigation conducted in the context of policy changes at the
political level which have borne most directly in recent years on the development of
science and technology policy in Britain. There are several policy changes which
deserve special consideration with regard to British civil science in the 1990s. First,
the move towards the prioritisation of key areas of scientific research using special
programmes for the focusing of government funding. Second, the fact that these have
evolved within an increasingly stringent economic framework. Third, the narrowing of
the institutional base for this work through a process of rewarding 'excellence' and
the concentration of resources in key institutions. Furthermore, the British Govern-
ment has sought to encourage a greater proportion of external non-government
funding in all areas of scientific endeavour, and has of necessity encouraged a greater
emphasis on shorter-term collaborative research. Finally, the promotion of the
 192 HARRY ROTHMAN, PETER GLASNER, AND CAMERON ADAMS

government's political and economic goals causing a concomitant shift away from
pure research towards more strategic areas. (Ince 1986).
The principal findings of this chapter suggest that people situated at the various
institutional levels concerned with strategic science promote differing, and largely
disparate, 'models' of science in terms of its theoretical basis, its development, and
its application. This contrasts sharply with the bulk of discussion of the public under-
standing of science which assumes a homogeneity of views within those communities
we studied. Our research also indicates an increasing prominence in the scientific
community of groups and individuals whose primary interests are instrumental and
strategic. Again, this contrasts with the orthodox view which emphasises curiosity-
driven research. Finally, our results attest to the marked tendency for strategic
research to be subjected to the requirements of commercial confidentiality. All this
suggests certain major characteristics of contemporary science which will in turn
affect the possibility for new relations between science and public groups.
The 'Save British Science' (Connerade 1988) campaign has highlighted the shrink-
ing nature of the science base in the UK over the last ten to fifteen years, providing
the broader political context within which our study developed. This 'disappearance'
of funding for science from government has been an essential element in government
strategy for concentration upon areas of excellence and the transfer of responsibility
for some research funding to non-governmental sources. We see this as 'disappearing
science' at the 'political' level. Although we do not investigate defence or military
science, investigation is, by definition, undertaken discreetly and is thereby hidden
from public view, even though spending on military R and D consumes the largest
proportion of available funding in the UK. This could be counted as another area in
which science 'disappears'.
However, our research has found that science can be described as 'disappearing'
on at least two other levels: the 'conceptual' and the 'commercial'. We discovered
that, even within the scientific community, actors hold a number of different, and
often conflicting, views about what constitutes scientific activities. Science can thus
be said to be 'disappearing' in that the conventional view of the work of the scientist
represents only one of a number of different understandings, which the public at
large rarely identify with scientific activity. A shift in the balance away from unfet-
tered blue-sky or basic research into strategic and more applied areas thus gives the
illusion of a contraction of scientific research activity. Secondly, on the commercial
level, research is increasingly undertaken in locations removed from the inquisitive
gaze of potential competitors and, consequently, of fellow scientists. It seems to
'disappear' into laboratories 'without windows'.
Following a review of how scientific activity has been modelled in early
sociological literature, the chapter begins with a discussion of the development of
strategic science and its location in the 'pre-competitive gap' between science and
 Proteins, plants, and currents 193

industry. This, it is suggested, provides an ideal research site for an investigation

of the different understandings of science held by those involved in its activities.
Four models are developed in the context of three different case-studies, and the
ways in which science can be said to be 'disappearing' at the conceptual and
commercial levels are explored. Elsewhere in this book the phenomenon of 'disap-
pearing science' has been discussed in terms of its invisibility to citizens within
everyday life. Here, we observe the different forms of 'disappearance' where
science no longer appears in its conventionally portrayed form. The chapter
concludes with the view that scientific activity still continues apace, but needs
reinterpretation as conventional views are replaced by more sophisticated under-
standings of what happens in science today.

Models of science
Studies of the social organisation of science have contributed to our understanding
of how the definition and interpretation of what constitutes scientific activity is to a
certain extent dependent upon its location and social context (see, inter alia,
Gouldner, 1957; Merton 1957; Kornhauser 1962; Glaser 1964; Ellis 1969; Cotgrove
and Box 1970). Kornhauser, in an early contribution, observed: research may mean
prestige to some top managers, a tax dodge to the controller, a customer service to
the Sales Department, trouble-shooting to the Manufacturing Departments and new
products to the Vice President (Kornhauser 1962). This observation was confirmed
by Ellis (1969) who similarly concluded that it was possible to determine a multi-
plicity of perceptions formed by the individual's socio-economic location. However,
this finding contradicted the prevailing sociological orthodoxy which relied on a
dichotomous view as illustrated by the work of Gouldner (1957), in his discussion of
'cosmopolitans' and 'locals'. These concepts, which were current for some years,
were subsequently incorporated into a further theoretical framework, best exem-
plified in the work of Cotgrove and Box (1970). Their more sophisticated model
classified public, academic, and private scientists as being 'professionals', and scien-
tists in large organisations as being (perhaps rather pejoratively) 'non-scientific',
despite being actively engaged in the pursuit of science. Here we see the reflection
of a more widely held cultural view of the nature of industrially based scientific
activity than that of Kornhauser or Ellis, namely that this hardly constitutes 'science'
at all. Only those activities that relate to basic, pure, or blue-sky research are appro-
priately labelled as 'professional' science, thereby contributing to the disappearance of
strategic and applied research into the 'non-scientific' category. Equally significantly,
however, these approaches suggested that scientists clearly form a heterogeneous
rather than homogeneous group, with possibly differing views about the nature of
their activities.
 194 HARRY ROTHMAN, PETER GLASNER, AND CAMERON ADAMS

Following studies of controversies in science (Collins 1981), it has become clear

that science is often best investigated when its basic assumptions are being questioned
or challenged. The pre-competitive gap in which strategic research is located provides
just such a research site, since its principal justification is neither basic nor applied,
but a combination of the two in creative tension. Scientists and scientific adminis-
trators working in the area of pre-competitive research recognise that its practical
meanings are by no means either agreed or shared in the same way, as Cotgrove and
Box suggest occurs in the two groups they identify. Many of our respondents have
generated their own 'independent' or contextual interpretations of the term 'stra-
tegic'. (Quotations from interview transcripts are numbered to prevent
identification.)

Well I suppose a certain amount of [our work] . . . is strategic in the sense that it's being
investigated so that it can be applied in the near future and I would say that most of it
would be applied within five or ten years certainly, but I would guess the bulk of the
work that we actually do is strictly applied research for applied science.
(006: NSP)

Well I suppose I think of it as a three year time scale — that seems to be the sort of time
which people who fund strategic research fund people for — that would be my best
guess.
(018: NSP)

A lot of oceanography would fall into strategic, it is driven by curiosity, you want to
know what is going on there, but it is of strategic importance to the UK, from our point
of view anyway. I don't know whether the civil servants and the politicians see it the
same way but from our point of view we regard it as strategic rather than fundamental
. . . well my definition of strategic is not the same as the government's.
(013: NSP)

I mean strategic research in a purely Thatcherite way is something that you can sell, so
if somebody is prepared to buy it from you then it's strategic but by that definition you
see NERC is buying our research, and NERC is buying research in universities which
people would call pure, so there is a customer for that pure research which is the
Research Council, so that's why I find it very difficult to say just where this boundary is.
That's why I said when you first came, I'm not sure what strategic research is, it's very
difficult to define. (017: NSP)

These views suggest that particular, personal knowledge of the science may be more
important for individuals than general scientific knowledge applied across the field
as a whole. Individual researchers, whatever their role, may relate more closely to
the specific nature of the issues they face, and reflect this in their understandings
of the research process when questioned from outside. This may help explain why,
when discussing their own strategic research areas, researchers reflect a variety of
 Proteins, plants, and currents 195

views about what constitutes strategic science, and what constitutes scientific activity
on a more abstract level.
Our findings clearly show that the three different settings which we investigated,
the Protein Engineering Club, the North Sea Community Project, and the Food and
Agriculture Research area, generated quite different views of how strategic research
is scientifically constituted. They also show that members construct different models
of science reflecting their different relationships with each other and the field of
study. These are explained in more detail below, and may represent specific 'mental
models' (see Adams, Glasner, and Rothman 1988, and chapter five in this collection)
held in conjunction with the more widely accepted understandings of science. They
form a 'bricolage' held together for social and contingent reasons having been con-
structed within particular strategic research areas.
We found, for example, industrial respondents working in strategic areas
employing a type of discourse which labelled science as a commodity or an enabling
and productive force vital to sustaining their company's profitability. One industrial
research director (012: PEC) referred to the scientific community in Britain as an
'underexploited resource' with the government being 'absolutely right to try and
force that interaction' between industry and academia. Another spoke of the need
to 'keep the academics in line and to steer the research in such a way that the
companies benefit from the research' (001: PEC). This view contrasts sharply with
the notion of 'unfettered science' which is so often presented by elite scientific bodies
such as the Royal Society.

Minding the gap

The view that science should somehow be 'harnessed' and channelled towards
meeting society's 'needs' has long been debated. Perhaps the most ardent advocate
of such a position was Bernal (1939: 415) who perceived the practice of science
as:
The prototype for all human common action [and, furthermore] . . . The task which
scientists have undertaken — the understanding and control of nature and of man
himself — is merely the conscious expression of the task of human society. The methods
by which this task is attempted, however imperfectly they are realized, are the methods
by which humanity is most likely to secure its own future.

Following the report of the Haldane Committee (1918) British governments have
accepted the need to provide their decision-makers with access to scientific research,
and since the Second World War have increasingly sought to ensure the benefits
of R and D to a wider community, especially British industry. Yet, as numerous
commentators have affirmed (for a recent discussion see Clutterbuck and Craimer
 196 HARRY ROTHMAN, PETER GLASNER, AND CAMERON ADAMS

1988) the results have often proved unsatisfactory. It has been argued that for much
of the post-War period British governments have pursued the wrong economic goals,
weakening British industry. Further, as Roger Williams (1988: 133) points out, many
of the reasons advanced in the literature for the decline of British industry 'have at
least an indirect connection, and sometimes a very direct one with science and indus-
try'. Williams cites, for example, arguments stressing:

the anti-industrial ideas transmitted from elites to the public at large via the public
schools and the media . . . an exaggerated concentration on science as knowledge to the
detriment of science as instrument, coupled with the poor training, rewards and status
of the applied scientist and engineer in British society. (p. 133)

In summary says Williams:

for whatever detailed reasons, though highly successful in basic science, Britain has
been insufficiently innovative and entrepreneurial, both in comparison with the United
States and more comparably in Europe, and also latterly when faced with challenges
from Japan and the newly industrialising countries of South East Asia. (p. 133)

Various attempts by Government have been made over the years to improve the
efficiency of British R and D. A notable reform was that based on the recommen-
dations of the Rothschild Report (1972), in particular its recommendation that the
'customer-contractor' principle be applied to all applied R and D funded by Govern-
ment. That is, 'R and D with a practical application as its objective must be done
on a customer contractor basis. The customer says what he wants, the contractor
does it (if he can), and the customer pays.' Rothschild argued that;
however distinguished, intelligent and practical scientists may be, they cannot be so
well qualified to decide what the needs of the nation are, and their priorities, as those
responsible for ensuring those needs are met. That is why applied R & D must have a
customer. (Rothschild 1972).

Applied R and D and basic research were distinguished by their end results. That
of applied research might be a product, a process, or a method of operation, whereas
that of basic research was an increase in knowledge. Whether or not this might turn
out to be useful was a matter of chance or, as Rothschild described it, 'a form of
scientific roulette'.
Over the two decades since the Rothschild Report, it has become increasingly
clear that scientific roulette can provide huge winnings, but that such luck favours
the prepared. For example, basic academic research in molecular biology laid the
basis for new biotechnology firms. Britain, however, has failed to benefit industrially
in proportion to its contribution to the basic research. Research is in reality a con-
tinuum, and national research funding policies based on a sharp distinction between
basic and applied research have come to be seen by many analysts (House of Com-
 Proteins, plants, and currents 197

mons 1975, 1976; ABRC 1979; ACARD 1985; ACOST 1990) as exacerbating a tra-
ditional British problem, rooted in a lack of consensus between industry, and aca-
demic research institutions, where most basic research is conducted. In consequence
policy-makers began to draw upon the concept of'strategic research' (ACARD 1985)
to handle this widening 'gap'. Crude operationalisations of definitions of basic and
applied research had only served to exacerbate the apartheid between industry and
academia.
In practice the concept of strategic research has been used to cover research with
perceived potential for exploitability, although not necessarily of immediate utility
to customers. Moreover, in terms of its location in the research spectrum it can be
quite fundamental in nature, although it has a less open-ended time scale than basic
research since it is conceived to achieve strategic economic (or military) objectives.
According to Irvine and Martin (1984) these may have emanated from two directions,
first 'market pull' - occurring when a potential user sees that more background
knowledge in a particular field is needed and, second, 'technology push' - when
research workers have recognised that a discovery may culminate in some form of
tangible application.
Although the strategic research concept incorporates a more proactive view of
science in comparison with the traditional, Polanyite (Polanyi 1962), model of sci-
ence, there remains none the less, the problem of what happens if there is little or
no enthusiasm from industry to take advantage of the strategic areas of scientific
development identified by government. Also, what happens when the interests of
commerce point in different directions to those of science? The resultant lacuna
has been labelled the 'pre-competitive gap' (Inter Research Council Co-ordinating
Committee On Biotechnology 1982). Successful research organisations, it is assumed,
take up these new strategic areas and eventually become involved in an altogether
different activity, 'near market research'. However, the precompetitive gap provides
an ideal research site for investigating whether different conceptions of scientific
activity exist within strategic science.

Case-studies
In order to explore the ways in which different understandings of science are devel-
oped within strategic research areas three case-studies were chosen: the Protein
Engineering Club; the North Sea Community Project; and the Food and Agriculture
Research area. Each had rather different characteristics in terms of formal structure
and purpose, but involved scientific 'workers'. The Protein Engineering Club was a
joint initiative between industry and academia, with the primary objective being to
facilitate the identification of strategic research areas earlier than might otherwise be
the case, within a broadly single disciplinary area. The North Sea Community Project
 198 HARRY ROTHMAN, PETER GLASNER, AND CAMERON ADAMS

was a multi-disciplinary, collaborative research area, funded by NERC with a rela-

tively small input from industry. The Food and Agriculture research area did not
involve a single programme, was funded primarily by AFRC except for a small
proportion of near-market work, and was limited to a narrow range of disciplines.
All three, therefore, were established to identify and pursue strategic research in
different ways. This provided a range of contrasting settings within which debates
about the nature of strategic research could illustrate different understandings of the
scientific process.
The Protein Engineering Club (PEC) was launched in April 1985 as a result of
the SERC Biotechnology Directorate's decision to identify and promote an area of
science with major strategic potential. It was designed as a research programme
for pre-competitive research in protein engineering, and involved new management
methods for establishing better co-operation between academic scientists, working
within the fields of molecular biology and X-ray crystallography, and their industrial
counterparts.
The Club was funded primarily through a combination of the SERC Biotech-
nology Directorate and four major industrial organisations: Celltech Ltd., Glaxo
Group Research Ltd., ICI pic, and J. and E. Sturge Ltd. Each of the four industrial
partners, despite committing relatively small sums to support the club's operation,
had two representatives on the club's Steering Committee. This arrangement enabled
them to wield substantial influence over the club's operation. SERC's total financial
input for the first phase was £600 000, while each of the industrial members contrib-
uted £30 000.
Our second area of investigation involved another kind of strategic science initi-
ative, the North Sea Community Project (NSP) which was to run for five years from
1988. It was one of five such Community Research Projects run by NERC. It was
designed to facilitate collaboration between marine scientists working in universities,
polytechnics, and NERC laboratories on the construction of a numerical model of
marine quality for the North Sea. As a Community Research Project, NERC co-
ordinated funding and facilities, which in this case included contributions from the
Ministry of Agriculture, Fisheries and Food (MAFF), and the industrial sector. The
North Sea Programme represented the NERC commitment to the support of basic
and strategic research in the environmental sciences, although, as the programme
developed, the research was focused on assessing the impact of pollution on the
North Sea. NERC also failed to generate much funding from private, commercial
sources.
The AFRC study, unlike the first two case-studies, did not focus upon a single
club or programme of strategic research. Instead a series of interviews were held in
various AFRC institutes and research stations involved in such areas of research as:
food and crop production methods, public health (for example, diet and nutrition),
 Proteins, plants, and currents 199

food quality and preservation, and food bio-technology. Each location visited was
funded by a grant for AFRC to a total of 80% of its budget. The remaining 20%
was to be secured from external sources, mainly to pay for research classified by
AFRC as 'near market'. During the 1980s, AFRC initiated a series of major restruc-
turing changes. The overt political intentions included the promotion of greater
co-operation and collaboration between AFRC laboratories and private industry
through identifying areas of strategic research. The actual results were, however,
controversial, since it has been suggested that the 'public-good' related research -
seen as 'near market' research - has been increasingly neglected in an attempt to
identify more strategic goals, in the context of a strengthening relationship between
industrial firms and the AFRC's research institutes.

Modelling science
For the purpose of our case-studies, we interviewed academic, research council,
and industrial scientists, industrial R and D managers, and research council and
governments officials. Inevitably, there were some overlaps and ambiguities. Never-
theless, we identified four distinctive models of science in operation. These can be
labelled the Republicans with views of science very similar to Polanyi's position in
his article 'The republic of science'; the Marketeers, who adopt a market-orientated
view of science; the Pre-competitors, those scientists who readily respond to, and
perceive as unproblematic the notion of closer collaborative ties with the private
sector; and the Facilitators, the administrators of science who work either within the
research councils or government departments. However, it was by no means the case
that these models are held by individuals to the exclusion of any of the others.
Interestingly enough, it was possible for an individual simultaneously to aspire to
more than one of these, although, usually, one that reflected the structural setting
in which the respondent was dominant (Glasner, Jervis, and Rothman 1989).

The Republicans
The traditional view of science was lucidly expressed by Michael Polanyi (1962).
Grove (1989: 1) summarises it thus: 'The primary motive for doing science is curi-
osity and a passion to know . . . [and] . . . to increase our understanding of the world:
what it is made of, how it is put together and how it works.' Scientists are idealised
as a body of explorers striving for enlightenment, and the intellectual values of sci-
ence are cross-checked and maintained by scientists as members of overlapping
groups. Scientific knowledge is consensual rather than individual, and scientific merit
is judged by peers. Intellectual freedom guarantees that new knowledge is discovered;
that scientific advance is unpredictable, and that its practical benefits are doubly
uncertain. In other words the benefits are contingent upon an unpredictable advance.
 200 HARRY ROTHMAN, PETER GLASNER, AND CAMERON ADAMS

According to Baker (1978: 385), Polanyi defined the essential features of freedom in
science as: 'the right [of the scientist] to choose one's own problem for investigation,
to conduct research free from any outside control, and to teach one's subjects in the
light of one's own opinions'. Elsewhere Baker suggests that Polanyi argued:
with all our might and at every point . . . We must reassert that the essence of science
is the love of knowledge and that the utility of knowledge does not concern us
primarily. We scientists are pledged to a higher obligation to values more precious than
material welfare.

These views have been advocated by numerous commentators on science, especially

in the tradition which sees science as a social system (as discussed earlier), reflecting
their own practice and a tradition stretching across many generations. It is a view
that is currently held, quite widely, in a loose form by many of those who participated
in our study, most especially the laboratory scientists. However it is only one of the
views of science which were advanced within interviews.
Those who did hold this view among the interviewees suggesting that science is
still seen as the 'path to enlightenment', a sort of 'mad pursuit' (Crick 1990), were
in a minority compared to the others when it came to deciding upon which aspects
of strategic science were to be developed. This Republican view is perhaps best
illustrated by the following interview extracts:
The argument is always that science has a long term investment to the nation so even
if it's very blue sky, highly fundamental, it could conceivably be very useful.
(004: NSP)

I have no time for that [i.e. strategic science] . . . because the contractual research
approach means that you know what the answer is pretty much. (016: PEC)

The Marketeers
Predictably perhaps, the Marketeers were committed to the pursuit of commercially
exploitable science. Of the utmost priority was the need for science to be evaluated
in terms of its economic potential for enhancing the company's profitability within
a relatively short time scale. One senior R and D director favoured the adoption of
'a much harder line' towards the academic scientists and close monitoring of the sums
contributed by industry. His views of the value of the club concept, as expressed in
PEC, had been somewhat mixed. Overall he felt the PEC had failed to produce
research of any important commercial consequence. Indeed he believed a comparable
sum spent by his company in-house or on a one-to-one basis might well have yielded
better results. In his view the research councils still needed to produce more compel-
ling evidence to demonstrate the effectiveness of the club concept.
Furthermore, Marketeers argued that collaborative research should be essentially
undertaken to underpin or enable particular types of technology, otherwise it could
 Proteins, plants, and currents 201

serve no useful purpose to industry. In particular, industry needs to 'get an early

look at something which may give [intellectual] property and then give products -
so it has to have something clear in it' (012: PEC). There was an appreciation of
the need to embark upon strategic research embodying fundamental and applied
research, provided it matched the strategic objectives of the company, and was likely
to culminate in a tangible outcome.

The Pre-competitors
Members of this emerging group of individuals were identified within each of the
three case-studies. We perceived Pre-competitors to be academic scientists who,
having acknowledged the importance of bringing external requirements to bear upon
science, sought to undertake 'applicable' research, and were prepared, because of its
commercially sensitive nature, that it be subject to some form of constraint. In
addition they perceived the inclusion of non-scientists in the process of determining
research priorities as both necessary and unproblematic, given that they were materi-
ally contributing to the research.
Furthermore, Pre-competitors believed academic scientists ought to understand
better the needs of industry and sought to establish a more co-operative set of
relationships with their commercial counterparts. 'So as long as we understand each
other and what our different needs and aims are then I don't see why we can't get
on extremely well' (003: PEC). The Pre-competitors were critical of their Republican
colleagues who purportedly have stubbornly remained inside their 'ivory towers' and
failed to go out to meet their industrial counterparts. Similarly, they did not accept
the Republican's assertion that collaborative research has weakened academic auton-
omy: 'I think there is an awful lot of hype . . . about that' (003: PEC). Significantly,
they were often critical of the opinion, common among the Republicans, that British
science is currently under-resourced. One scientist commented: 'I think if scientists
have the right attitude and go out and talk to industry then industry listens and
gives us money. I'm almost in the embarrassing position at the moment of getting
too much support if I wanted it' (on: PEC). Another respondent insisted that aca-
demics do need to think more commercially: 'there's every reason why we should
learn to exploit the good things and have some fun doing the fundamental stuff -
I don't see why you can't do both - certainly that's my aim - to do both' (023:
PEC). The Pre-competitors also welcomed the drive by government to make science
more responsible to the market requirements of industry, with some referring to 'an
enormous amount of waste going on in the academic community, [and denounced
the peer review system as] A small club of people who get well financed by . . .
wheeling and dealing' (023: PEC).
Finally there was a broad consensus among this new breed of entrepreneur scien-
tists that science actively thrives in a competitive climate because it has helped
 202 HARRY ROTHMAN, PETER GLASNER, AND CAMERON ADAMS

'sharpen people up' and has encouraged scientists to publish their research sooner
for fear of losing ground, although this may not always be possible as we show below.

The Facilitators
The Facilitators' view of science is as externally directed, for strategic and political
reasons, with the overall goal of developing enabling technologies, in order to facili-
tate take-up by industry. Dissemination is limited by political and economic con-
straints, and judged in terms of exploitability. Central funding, either in academic
or industrial or government department settings, is administered rather than man-
aged, and outcomes are judged by the degree of industrial take-up, within specified
time spans.
Respondents advancing such beliefs were predominantly found either within the
research councils or government departments such as the Department of Trade and
Industry. Significantly, few were prepared to offer their personal opinion, choosing
instead to provide an account of their organisation's official policy.
While emphasising their distance from the scientist's bench our respondents con-
tinually stressed the need for science to contribute to the advancement of national
wealth. Their own responsibility was to ensure that such objectives were achieved
through government policy.
One official likened the role of the research councils to that of a scaffolder who
erects a temporary structure upon which industry and academia can build. At all
times, he continued, it is important for the research councils to 'consider the external
environment which includes funding and . . . restricted manpower, [adding that
given] . . . there is only a finite number of scientists [and] . . . an even smaller number
of world class scientists, restricted resources [and] . . . restricted facilities then inevi-
tably . . . you are into priority setting' (005: OFF). Another senior ex-official
described how it was vital for the facilitators to continually 'look forward and antici-
pate' national requirements, while at the same time promoting linkages between the
public and private sectors of science - hence the demand for strategic research initia-
tives, which another respondent defined as the pursuit of 'new knowledge or [the]
re-working of existing knowledge for the potential benefit to the welfare of mankind'
(002: OFF).
The Facilitators, on the whole, believed that British science had undergone a
period of cultural re-evaluation during the previous two decades. However, this was
not necessarily evil, for, whether scientists like it or not, the state has the ultimate
authority and responsibility for all expenditure of public funds. It has to say 'Hey,
as this is public money it must be properly accounted for and the best way to account
for it is to say you must make what you do with taxpayers' money relevant to the
taxpayer . . . I regard that as a perfectly acceptable statement' (001: OFF). Thus the
 Proteins, plants, and currents 203

government has rightly taken a more vigorous attitude towards evaluating the
efficiency and effectiveness of science.
To achieve this last objective they argue scientific programmes need to be better
managed and to this end the Facilitators wished to counteract inertia by encouraging
greater external participation by industry, or, as one official put it:
The problem is that people tend to get stuck in those structures, if there was much
more diffusion of people through those structures it would be helpful and these labels
[i.e. those defining different types of research] wouldn't matter so much. But it is true,
and I don't know how one goes about solving it, that people tend to be industrial
scientists or academic scientists and have different languages, different ethos and
different defence mechanisms, and that to me is where a lot of the problems lie.
(003: OFF)

To summarise, the Facilitators were largely critical of the Republican viewpoint

and sought direct intervention where necessary to bring about some form of cultural
transformation within the scientific community. Such a proposition would appear
complementary to the views advanced by both the Marketeers and the
Pre-competitors.

The case of disappearing science: the conceptual level

The four different understandings of science exemplified in our interviews are not
exhaustive. The case-studies have generated a number of particular accounts which
reflect the scientists' social and economic location within the strategic research area.
However, the models strongly suggest that the conventional, Republican view of
scientific activity may only be a relatively small aspect of the ways in which contem-
porary science functions in the late twentieth century. Our findings indicate that,
instead of regarding the conventional view as 'professional science' (as described by
Cotgrove and Box 1970), and other forms as non-scientific activity, the reverse is
likely to be the case. Indeed, a 'professional' scientist is now much more likely to
hold to a dominant understanding of science as market-oriented, pre-competitive,
or administrative. The communalist view held by the Republican scientists no longer
appears to have greatest significance.
An analysis of the career developments of our respondents also confirmed the fact
that most of those currently involved in these new professional areas, had at some
time in their careers (often during early socialisation) been scientific Republicans.
Individuals were able to hold a number of different models in their mind simul-
taneously by relating them to their own career experiences. However, as our inter-
views show, their current commitments to scientific activity tended to reflect their
social locations rather more directly. Scientists were able to manipulate different
 204 HARRY ROTHMAN, PETER GLASNER, AND CAMERON ADAMS

aspects of their activities qua scientists to develop the best 'fit' with their
circumstances.
The implications of these processes, the importance of career trajectories, and the
ability to manipulate a variety of conceptual frameworks, are far-reaching in the
context of the public understanding of science. The conventional view is unidimen-
sional and homogeneous, and not far removed from the wild-haired, white-coated,
and bespectacled gentleman scientist creating new knowledge at his laboratory bench.
The reality is very different to this idealised view both in appearance, but more
importantly at the conceptual level. What exists is not unity but diversity, not homo-
geneity but heterogeneity.
It is therefore very likely that for the public at large (and perhaps even for some
scientists themselves) science may be 'disappearing' partly because what is recognised
as scientific activity is moving from ideal type to stereotype. The strategic research
areas covered by our case-studies provide strong evidence that this appears to be
the case.

Commercialisation and science

Science is not just disappearing from view at the conceptual level discussed above,
but is in the process of shifting from sight in a more obvious way in industrial
laboratories and some commercially sponsored university research groups. Before
exploring this in detail, it is useful to discuss the policy and other changes which
have provided the necessary framework.
Several commentators (Ince 1986; Dickson 1984; Aronowitz 1988; Habermas 1970;
Nikolayev, 1975) have in the recent past identified a marked shift in science policy
as practised by many Western governments and businesses towards" the containment
of research both in scope and in funding. Dorothy Nelkin (1984) describes how the
problem surrounding patent rights in the US has led to a 'growing number of legal
and administrative disputes' which have helped raise 'fundamental issues of pro-
fessional sovereignty; scientific secrecy and proprietary rights'. She further questions
how far governments and industry should be empowered to control and/or restrict
research and asks whether the 'necessary safeguards' to protect the scientist's aca-
demic autonomy are currently in existence. The crucial issue for Nelkin (which she
believes has deep implications for the scientific community) is ownership and control
as exercised by the state and the commercial sectors. Because scientific research is
increasingly closely linked to the interests of power and profit many 'scientists often
find themselves embroiled in struggles over the control of the process of investi-
gation, the data produced and the ideas derived' (Nelkin 1984: 4).
Research undertaken during the 1960s found detailed evidence showing that
industry viewed the 'economics of research as secret' (Nikolayev, 1975). More recent
 Proteins, plants, and currents 205

evidence, as noted earlier, shows that new organisational and state strategies are being
developed in order to constrain the flow of scientific knowledge. For example, the
EC Committee on Economic and Monetary Affairs and Industrial Policy in a report
entitled The Economic Consequences of the New Technologies advocated the need for
'the control of knowledge, which covers patent protection, standards policy and the
development of the information and language industries as well as questions of tech-
nology transfers and technological autonomy' (Besse 1987: 5).
In Britain, however, there has been a partial recognition of the potential pitfalls
of such policy developments. One submission made to the House of Lords Select
Committee on Science and Technology (1988) argued: 'Commercial confidentiality
must not be allowed to impose secrecy on publicly supported programmes, nor must
the totality of such programmes become too influenced by industry's necessary com-
mitment to the market place.' Whilst another contributor to the Committee believed:
'the strategic research concept may well result in an imbalance between basic and
applied science, encourage the greater duplication of research and necessitate tighter
controls on academic freedoms'.
Despite such reservations, it is clear that the identification of exploitable science
has become an important feature of British science policy. Consequently, a series
of policy changes supposedly geared to sustaining the nation's economic and
industrial competitiveness were introduced. This resulted in a dramatic restructur-
ing of British science designed to encourage, or force, scientists wishing to secure
funding to look increasingly to the private sector and/or to collaborative ventures.
This shift in emphasis has, according to Irvine and Martin (1984), raised the
question of 'who controls what and for what purposes', and has led to certain
areas of basic research being redefined as strategic. The possibilities for conflict
creation in that trend can be seen from the recent NIH furore in The Human
Genome Project over the question of patenting of base sequences (Anderson and
Aldhous 1992).
Individual respondents discussed the commercialisation process within the con-
text of their own prevailing model of science. In some cases there were very
different views propounded about the significance and importance attached to the
issues. None the less it was accepted that science is, in a very real sense, now
widely regarded as a commodity. To illustrate this particular point it is worth
quoting one respondent at length:

Ten years ago here in Britain in oceanography, and NERC in general I think, we were
[a] much more, academically pure, research organisation . . . one would go to meetings
in Europe and America or whatever and people would give papers and you would stand
up say, 'Hang on, we've solved that problem and this is in fact what you do, or if you
write to us I'll send you the coding, and so on . . .' [We] had a much freer perspective,
we were exchanging our know-how very freely with people . . . I think I eventually
 206 HARRY ROTHMAN, PETER GLASNER, AND CAMERON ADAMS

realised that what was happening was that it was just that we were from different
backgrounds, often the Americans or the Europeans or whatever had similar know-how
but they were in a much more commercial environment and were much less free to give
it away, in fact they thought we were pretty stupid I think in giving it away. Now we
are moving very much into that same area so with competition it does affect you, people
who used to write to me maybe a few years ago, organisations in the UK where up until
then I saw it as our role very much to help these people as much as you reasonably
could, and so if they wanted something you just whipped it out of the drawer and
xeroxed it and off it went. Nowadays those same people come on the phone and you
tend to think two things, one - how much can I charge them for this, and the other is -
why give this away, this same organisation, we could be competing for a contract with
them, so why give them a head start on us, so I think that question you asked about the
commercialisation of science in the UK and its effect on freedom, it's not on
publications in our case, it hasn't got that far at present but it is in terms of interaction
with other people and it is regrettable in some ways. (021: NSP)

Others expressed concern that such a shift in thinking is helping to constrain scien-
tific advancement:
I think any limits on communication must restrict the growth of science because very
much in our science anyway where the sort of basics have been known for years and
each one of us is just sort of building tiny little blocks on top of other blocks and the
individual's contribution is minimal really in total, it's the integration of everything,
and when you start dividing the structure up then I think there is a long lead time on
that but ultimately yes. (018: NSP)

Consequently there has been the continuing demise of small science in favour of big
science whereby 'big clubs form' with one of the most disturbing features being that
individual scientists will become:
less than truthful frankly, you know a lot of people who get up and say they can do
things or have done things and all of their friends stay quiet and their enemies attack
them and their friends then support them and then in the bar afterwards they admit
that what they said wasn't true or whatever and so science becomes a commodity and
so just like any industry it has competition and the competition isn't at the same
healthy level as I think beforehand. (021: NSP)

Such a process will cause scientists to 'become fossilised' and 'toe the party line'
and help to stifle scientific inquiry:
you know the old business of steam engines will they be more efficient than internal
combustion but Ford's have got fifty years of know-how and really don't want to know
. . . very much the same thing can happen in science. [Thus such structures] . . . if
they become too rigid are harmful to the free exchange of ideas and are not as
receptive to new things. (021: NSP)

Within the context of the PEC a number of conflicting views and objectives were
promoted which likewise strengthen the case for seeing conventionally defined sci-
 Proteins, plants, and currents 207

ence 'disappear'. The principal concern for the industrial members was to ensure
that few details of the research (during its initial phases) be made known to other
scientists or people in rival commercial organisations outside the club. In particular
they were keen to identify 'potentially exploitable' research outcomes and, wherever
necessary, to suppress their publication. More than one academic complained that
the industrial partners endeavoured to restrict the flow of information between the
scientists inside the club itself - an action which 'caused immense friction' during
the initial stages: 'people were saying they'd never heard about this, why weren't
we told, who was asked, why did you write to him, why didn't you write to me,
my Head of Department never circulates letters of this kind, etc., etc' (007: PEC).
One suggestion was that the commercial partners' main interest lay in the develop-
ment of protein crystallography - largely true according to one industrial participant.
This had the effect of splitting that community into two and the creation of 'a sort
of inner club' where knowledge was withheld from other club members (015: PEC).
Other scientists were concerned because, at the onset of the club's conception,
'the decisions very often had to be made by people who were not scientists' which
caused some academic scientists to believe the industrial partners had secured 'a
fairly easy ride' having 'put in very little money' whilst being able to exert 'a major
influence on the projects that (got) supported' (109: PEC).
It was suggested that the North Sea Project's primary objective had been to assess
the impact of pollution in the North Sea and not to map its currents, a view dismissed
by some of our academic respondents who insisted such comments 'smacked of
political opportunism'. However, one scientist observed, 'the reasons why the NSP
was set up were probably not scientific ones they were political ones' (020: NSP).
Another respondent believed the Government's overall commitment to the marine
sciences as such to be questionable, especially given the scale of redundancies:

Well clearly in the NERC area a lot of people have essentially been made redundant —
some very good people have gone abroad and it is the same around the whole scientific
community I think . . . people are not in very good spirits and a certain buoyancy has
gone - particularly in the NERC institutes. (018: NSP)

A number of interesting and diverse arguments were also offered as to why the
NERC had largely failed in its attempts to secure for the Project any significant
interest or funding from commercial sources. One suggestion was that the Research
Council had not approached industry early enough and:

If they [industry] were going to be involved [then they] should have been involved
right at the beginning . . . [Furthermore] What's strategic to NERC may well not be
what's strategic to an oil company, and in fact it may well be that there's a time lag
there, and the strategic research the oil companies would have wanted would have been
years ago. (002: NSP)
 208 HARRY ROTHMAN, PETER GLASNER, AND CAMERON ADAMS

Whilst another oceanographer observed the meaning of the term strategic is 'very
different, very different for the various groupings involved' (005: NSP). Another
difficulty facing NERC was that of designing a multidisciplinary and collaboratively
based research programme; largely because 'you can't actually please the two masters'
at the same time. Furthermore, the only feasible way to help resolve such problems
is to provide for 'a lot of discussion, a lot of discourse, between the individuals and
the groups concerned' and not to 'go cap in hand to industry at the end of it all
and say you're a bit short. I don't think industry would be that sympathetic, is my
general impression' (005: NSP).
It is clear, therefore, that the commercialisation of scientific research has focused
the concerns of practitioners at all levels on the potential difficulties it poses for the
untrammelled pursuit of knowledge and truth. One particular area of concern is the
need for secrecy and the fear of industrial espionage, which is explored more fully
in the next section.

The case of disappearing science: the commercial level

A major area of concern among a number of respondents, particularly in the PEC,
was academic laboratory-industry co-operation in developing new products or new
materials and its impact on the Mertonian norm of disciplinary communism. For
the scientists who hold the Republican view of science, co-operation is proper, above
board, open for discussion, and, relatively speaking, unproblematic. These views
were antithetical to the Pre-competitive scientists who were committed to the pursuit
of strategic science and the consequent need for commercial secrecy.
Some of the Republican scientists suggested their work was being 'poached' by
commercially minded researchers, while others believed there is a growing tendency
for research to be conducted 'behind closed doors' or, as one put it, 'in a lab without
windows'. The same senior scientist went further and described how, in his experi-
ence, the 'real' research undertaken by one large industrial organisation had been
located down a flight of stairs where 'it didn't see the light of day' and was 'certainly
not communicated to the other industrial organisations' engaged in the same venture.
It was not suggested that this phenomenon had in any sense inhibited the pursuit
of strategic science and its later application(s), nevertheless, this did represent an
example of the removal of scientific research from the public domain.
The Marketeering view on collaborative initiatives was to ensure that they could
participate 'without giving away commercial advantage'. But this was precisely why,
in the case of the PEC, a number of the companies chose not to join: 'they didn't
want to disclose what they might be working on [and] . . . they didn't want to steer
the committee so that other companies could identify their aims' (001: IND). Inter-
estingly one industrialist claimed that certain academic scientists had adopted a much
 Proteins, plants, and currents 209

more aggressive position than their business partners in their efforts to commercialise
the product. When asked why this might be so he said it was largely due to expedi-
ency on the part of the academics because it matched the 'current face of university
politics - if you can exploit your research then you're the good guys' (001: IND).
However he did add that industry remains primarily motivated by 'the aims of profit
and commercial exploitation'.
The Facilitator view was less ambiguous. Indeed one Department of Trade and
Industry official put it bluntly, arguing that those academic scientists wishing to
participate in one of the collaborative programmes should comply with the various
conditions stipulated. He continued:
I don't think it is unreasonable to expect them to go into the programme well aware of
what the constraints on them will be, if they enter the programme they must do it
with their eyes open. If we are now talking about transferring technology to industry
which is going to try and make profits and create jobs out of that technology it's not
unreasonable to expect that information to be kept confidential . . . so I take a pretty
tough line with [them] . . . I think. [T]here is no way you can easily reconcile academic
freedom and industrial confidentiality. They are incompatible. (001: OFF)

For the Pre-competitor, the Marketeer, and the Facilitator alike 'no publication
equals easier exploitation'. Some of those scientists who had direct experience of
working in, or on behalf of, industrial organisations described how they were
occasionally dissuaded from publishing the results of their work in reputable journals
before the necessary patents had been filed. There were also occasions when the
employers found it necessary to suppress publication in the interests of commercial
expediency, thereby making it difficult for the scientists to register new knowledge
in the traditionally approved manner.
Whilst the need to suppress or delay publication clearly conflicted with the Repub-
lican position, there were nevertheless additional differences of opinion. Our research
confirmed the existence of conflicting priorities for the role of science among our
respondents. Industrialists surveyed in our research were most concerned that any
collaborative work should be premised upon the creation of 'money-generating
results' (002: IND). Thus strategic research constitutes work 'which is supposed to
have an economic basis but is not yet of any direct economic interest to individual
companies' (002: IND). However, problems emerged because the members failed to
agree on a shared programme of research. Each had their own strategic objectives
and were loathe to divulge information likely to reward their potential competitors.
The implication of this last point is clear - no company wishes to participate in a
research programme where there lies the risk of losing its competitive edge. Accord-
ing to some respondents, this resulted in individual members acting warily and
defensively at the joint meetings of the PEC.
Some respondents thought that academic scientists ought to accept that if they
 210 HARRY ROTHMAN, PETER GLASNER, AND CAMERON ADAMS

choose to participate in collaborative ventures with industry then, essentially, they

have sold themselves completely outside the academic community and must thereby
comply with the necessary restrictions. This problem, however, remains largely
unresolved:
The two sides treat each other with a fair degree of suspicion and I think in my view,
the suspicion is more justified on the industrial side than the academic side. Because
they [academics] want to be able to do what they want and publish it all, but at the
same time collect money from industry . . . [whereas] the objectives . . . [of] industry in
putting in that money is to promote confidential research which they want to keep
secret and exploit commercially; and the revelation of those results outside upsets the
applecart in terms of exploitation. (002: IND)

Indeed the same interviewee went further and suggested that some academic scien-
tists wished to develop their own commercial interests by putting themselves in 'a
sort of middleman position so that they're actually in a position to exploit'. This
view was supported by some Republican scientists who believed such an outcome
was precisely that anticipated by the Pre-competitors.

Rediscovering science
In theory, the public understanding of science appears to be a zero sum game with
a limited number of concepts and a connecting language, which can be grasped by
anyone with sufficient wit and enthusiasm. In practice, this project has argued that
the range of different models of science available is a function as much of the context
and historical location as it is of conceptual structure. In showing this, the research
has highlighted the importance of seeing what is missing from discussions of strategic
science, and using the gaps, not to discover an abstract notion of traditional scientific
discovery, but to rediscover the real world of science which has all but disappeared
in discussions of what constitutes an appropriate public understanding of the
phenomenon.
It is therefore apparent that understandings of science may suffer because science
does not fit with the traditional model as described by Polanyi's 'Republic of Science',
not only for those working in strategic areas at all levels, but also for the public at
large. It is this traditional model which appears to have 'disappeared' from the dis-
course of science policy-making to be replaced by a much more heterogeneous collec-
tion of differing models of appropriate scientific activity. Science has therefore to
be rediscovered in these different models without the preconceptions normally
underpinning sociological research.
Our findings show that science, more especially science in strategic areas, appears
to be disappearing from various levels of discourse in the public domain, and to be
doing so in a variety of ways. However, it also recognises that this may be the result
 Proteins, plants, and currents 211

of a magician-like sleight of hand which is only possible because the eyes of the
audience are glued to a traditional and relatively narrow model of scientific activity.
Science waits to be rediscovered by research which refuses to accept this conventional
view.

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 Conclusions
ALAN IRWIN AND BRIAN WYNNE

The fieldwork presented in this volume provides mainly qualitative insights into the
ways in which public groups attempt to fashion locally useful knowledges from
'external' and 'indigenous' sources. Most of the chapters analyse the interactions
between identifiable social groups and scientific, technical or medical experts. These
groups are defined by different parameters; geopolitical-cultural location (The Isle
of Man); shared livelihood, culture, and physical place, but with more cultural per-
meability (Cumbrian sheep-farmers); physical location but a less-distinct culture
(residents around major industrial hazard sites); shared experience of medical treat-
ment - either chronic or episodic (hypercholesterolaemia and antenatal patients).
Two further chapters analyse responses of more diffuse collectivities to scientific
knowledges as experienced in museum exhibitions (Chapter Seven), and in relation
to radiation hazards in the home (Chapter Five). Finally, and consistent with the
orientation of the fieldwork chapters, two chapters examine new contexts of the
contemporary negotiation of scientific practice (i.e. the norms and ethos of what is
meant by 'science') - namely in environmental debate and policy-making, and in
the commercialisation of scientific research.
In these conclusions, we offer some thoughts on the overall implications of this
work by giving further reflection and clarification to some of the key themes of
our book. Since two of the key assumptions about science which frame the 'public
understanding' issue are its intrinsic usefulness and its universality, it is especially
important to give attention to two issues at this stage: the connections between 'useful
knowledge' and hidden models of social agency; and the relationships between the
'local' and the 'cosmopolitan' in the 'micro-social' research presented here. Following
this, we will consider some of the practical lessons which can be drawn from our
collective research.

Useful knowledge, social agency, and legitimation

'Useful' knowledge in this context means valid and socially legitimate, as well as
being of more immediate practical relevance and use. It is often found that expert
 214 ALAN IRWIN AND BRIAN WYNNE

knowledge has been ignored by social groups because it is not tailored to the needs,
constraints, and opportunity structures of the social situation into which it has been
interjected as authoritative knowledge. Emergency planning information which is
insensitive to the practical differences between daytime - when family may be at
school and work - and night-time - when they are likely to be together at home -
is one such example. Our collection has suggested many more.
This book has already implied the need for sensitivity to the 'local' context(s),
and for listening to and understanding 'user' situations and knowledges. However,
the legitimacy of external expertise also involves further dimensions. These include
its accessibility and accountability, whether it implies empowerment or disem-
powerment of social actors, and its consistency or otherwise with relevant cultural
idioms. As the case-studies clearly show, these dimensions amount to more than
questions of 'presentation' or 'communication' of what are assumed to be already-
validated knowledges.
The social legitimation of expertise necessitates the reopening of expert knowledge
and its validation all over again - but in more complex, less reductionist circum-
stances. Often, as the case-studies have shown, the prior context of scientific vali-
dation has been shaped by social assumptions (for example, about user-capabilities
and needs) and these have been 'black-boxed' into analysis. Thus, social assumptions
within science become exempt from negotiation. This raises questions directly about
the contexts of validation and construction of expert knowledges. Repeatedly, we find
expert knowledges (and associated social programmes, be they emergency planning,
environmental protection, medical treatments, or public education) running into dif-
ficulties because they have assumed that validation of expert knowledge is completed
before (and insulated from) its social deployment or use. The shaping social assump-
tions then become problematic prescriptions - inviting public alienation from scien-
tific discourse.
So deeply ingrained is this assumption that all of the troubling experiences of
apathy, resistance, plain distortion, and exaggeration which disfigure the public life
of science in modern 'scientific' democracy have led to little or no consideration of
whether they imply anything might be wrong with the organisation, control, and
conduct of 'science' (in addition to just its 'communication'). It is taken for granted
that the contexts of validation of use or dissemination are separate, and that the
source of the problems lies only in the latter domain - partly with the inability of
scientists to communicate their knowledge, but mainly with the inability of publics
to assimilate it.
Thus the 'public understanding of science' problematique has been constructed
in such a way as to project onto 'the public' the internal problems and insecurities
about legitimation, public identification, and the negotiation of science's own identity
which pervade scientific institutions. This has the effect of pre-empting complex
 Conclusions 215

and threatening questions about contemporary institutional structures and cultural

properties of science, and their correspondence or otherwise with broader cultural
and social norms. Questions pertaining to legitimacy and the backcloth of public
uptake of, or alienation from, science thus become obscured.
Within this dominant ideology, 'the public' has been constructed in particular
ways which our research challenges. For example:
A 'the public' is usually implied to be an aggregate of atomised individuals with
no social composition, hence no legitimate autonomous cultural substance;
B ignorance - defined as the lack of knowledge as measured against scientific
standards - is taken to be a function of intellectual vacuum or incapacity,
whereas (Chapter Five) our research shows it often to be a function of active
reflection upon, and construction of, the actor's social position and identity
in relation to scientific-technical institutions;
c it is assumed that the actor's basic values are identical with those of science -
for example, that she is concerned to maximise control, rather than perhaps
to negotiate and adapt to actors and forces recognised to be beyond such
control or which should be beyond such control. Hence, the epistemological
commitments which frame science, namely instrumental control, are assumed -
wrongly - to be the automatic norm defining all valid knowledge;
D lay people are assumed to desire and expect certainty, and risk-free environ-
ments, so that their lack of enthusiasm for science can then be attributed to
their alleged inability to face up to science's 'grown-up' recognition that risk
and uncertainty are intrinsic to everything. Yet our research reinforces pre-
vious work in showing no such naivete on the part of the public; indeed it
shows the central kind of risk being faced as that of dependency upon increas-
ingly expert-imbued social institutions, the basis for trust in which is obscure;
E the public is assumed to exist within the same structure of social agency as
the expert or anyone else, in that the social opportunities for (and implications
of) use of available knowledge are assumed to be homogenous throughout
society. This is a corollary of point A above. In effect, it denies structures of
power and dependency in society, and the inscription of these into people's
'natural', culturally rehearsed boundaries of possible action and knowledge.
The fieldwork reported here roundly contradicts each of these articles of faith in
the dominant worldview which shapes the conventional public understanding of sci-
ence agenda. This orthodox construction of 'the public' and 'public understanding'
systematically deflects attention away from critical debate about science and scientific
institutions, about the ownership and control of science and its products, and about
the implicit social visions these carry. It is an important finding from our research
that, since public experiences of science can never be detached from imputed
 2l6 ALAN IRWIN AND BRIAN WYNNE

institutional interests and agendas of whatever kind, the manifest lack of reflexivity
on the part of science in public only amplifies any existing tendency for public groups
to mistrust it.
It follows from our argument in this book that 'useful' scientific knowledge needs
to be reflexive and self-aware rather than dismissive of such social and epistemologi-
cal concerns as irrelevant and 'soft'. If science is to work with rather than against
public groups (or simply be ignored by them), then 'usefulness' and 'self-reflexivity'
must form part of the same social and institutional processes. What is meant by
science in given cases must be more open to structured reflection and negotiation,
with particular attention to the conditions of validity of the relevant knowledges.

The local and the cosmopolitan

The unreflexive character of science in public is encouraged by a further misconcep-
tion of the relationship between the 'local' and the 'cosmopolitan', and, paralleling
this, between the 'micro-social' qualitative research presented in this volume and the
'macro-social' quantitative data of public understanding of science survey research.
A common way of describing the relationship between large-scale quantitative
surveys of public understanding of science and micro-social qualitative research is
to present the former as providing the objective large-scale picture of the structural
realities of public understanding, and the latter as filling in the details. Thus, at the
outset of the ESRC/SPSG public understanding of science initiative from which
this work is derived, but which also supported some large-scale quantitative public
surveys, there existed an assumption amongst some that the role of the qualitative
studies was to help elaborate the survey questionnaires by finding richer detail and
possible differentiation about likely lay sources of information, trusted expert bodies,
and local uses and practices. Questions about the meanings of 'science' to different
social groups, and the possibility of unarticulated epistemological conflict and nego-
tiations about the implicit social purposes of knowledge, were simply not conceived
to be issues within this perspective. In other words, 'universal' science was not prob-
lematised. Qualitative social research on public understanding was seen only as intel-
lectual embroidery within the 'objective' macro-social patterns revealed by large-scale
surveys. Put differently, large-scale surveys would offer the overall black-and-white
pattern, whilst ethnographic projects would provide occasional splashes of
technicolour.
We regard this as a fundamental misreading of the relationships between the
(micro) qualitative and the (macro) quantitative, and between the local and the
cosmopolitan empirical focus in such research areas. Consistent with the developing
body of social-theoretical debate about modernity and post-modernity, we note that
 Conclusions 217

the social processes of response to and (re)construction of science can be understood,

not by seeing them merely as local embellishments of life within the objective cosmo-
politan parameters of scientific modernity, but as responses partly to the fundamental
failures of those 'universal' modernist institutions, programmes, and promises even
within their own instrumental terms.
Thus, to take an example from Chapter One, Cumbrian sheep-farmers were not
predisposed to refuse credibility root-and-branch to scientific advice about the Cher-
nobyl fall-out. However, they soon found that they were being offered no opportunity
to negotiate the conditions of validity nor the boundaries of the science in their
situation, thereby denigrating their own specialist knowledge and social identity. The
science was not fulfilling its instrumental claims. Furthermore, it was culturally alien
in its epistemological assumptions of predictive control and determinacy, rather than
the adaptive flexibility and indeterminacy which represented a more familiar cultural
idiom to the farmers. There was, in other words, a deep and unarticulated conflict
about the proper scope and nature of human agency, a social-cultural conflict which
was not even recognised. In so far as institutionalised science reflected an assumption
of control, this was also a conflict over the political boundaries of scientific expertise
in relation to their accustomed structures of decision-making.
In other words, we would argue that the 'local' machinations around science as
analysed in this collection are of much wider significance than the particular local
context in which they are manifested. This is true for each such case, setting aside
for the moment the aggregate significance of the countless similar cases we could have
examined. In different detailed ways, they all witness the attempted renegotiation of
the social and cultural reach of modern scientific culture, of the epistemological
principles of instrumental control which have become enshrined and taken for
granted as the 'natural' criteria of valid public knowledge, hence of privileged auth-
ority, in modern society. In many of the cases in this volume, lay people operated
effectively and constructively, despite obstacles, as peer-reviewers of the validity of
scientific expertise applied to their situation. This extended peer-group role extends
into negotiation over the legitimate reach of scientific principles of instrumental con-
trol, and of the interests seen to be shaping particular scientific claims and
interpretations.
Thus, 'local' processes and cases as described in - and only accessible to - qualitat-
ive research methods are of far wider significance than conventionally supposed,
because they are prototypical renegotiations of the basic nature and legitimacy of
cosmopolitanism, that is of modernism and its assumptions of the universal remit
of instrumental rationality and good science as we know it. Although in political
discourse, such unitary and homogeneous models of good science are deployed as
standards of rational authority, empirical examination shows practice to be far more
 2l8 ALAN IRWIN AND BRIAN WYNNE

flexible, diverse, and indeterminate. Jasanoff 's account of the negotiations of practi-
cally effective definitions of 'good science' for environmental risk management
amongst the US regulatory agencies is a case in point here.1
The redefinitions of science under commercial prerogatives as described in Chap-
ter Nine also exhibit indeterminacy and indeed confusion about ultimate normative
models of science, whether or not this relatively private fluidity is ever reflected in
more public debate. Likewise Yearley's chapter on environmentalist constructions
and uses of science indicates a similar indeterminacy about what is to count as valid
knowledge in 'the' public sphere. If the social purposes of public knowledge are to
uphold less instrumental and exploitative relationships between human society and
nature, and between human beings themselves, as much of the impetus of new femin-
ist, environmental, and other social movements and post-modern critique would
claim, what does this imply for the redefinition of 'science' as valid public authority?
Regardless of the concrete answer to this pressing question, we argue that the
fundamental social dynamics of many 'ordinary', so-called local cases of public
response to, and negotiation with, scientific expertise are similar to those of the more
articulated cultural critiques of modernity. The local is the site of renegotiation of
the 'universal'.
Much of the interest in public understanding of science stems from the field of
risk, often arising from frustration amongst experts that the public is apparently
unable to comply with what the experts say about risk magnitudes. The simplistic
idea that people should compare quantitative estimates of risks and shape their
acceptance of technologies accordingly, has given way to a more developed under-
standing of the social rationality of expert and public risk definitions. Whereas expert
risk assessments usually take the trustworthiness of relevant institutions for granted,
this is often precisely the focus (explicit or otherwise) of public concern and scepti-
cism. Indeed broader theories of 'the risk society' have identified a pervasive public
mood of scepticism and alienation from the dominant institutions of modern society,
most especially those like science which claim unconditional and universal warrant
as the epitome of modernity.2
What scientists interpret as a naive and impracticable public expectation of a
zero-risk environment can thus be seen instead as an expression of zero trust in
institutions which claim to be able to manage large-scale risks throughout society.
These social dimensions of risk and trust are the general context within which specific
issues are played out. Action, organisation, and the informal negotiation of collective
loyalties outside the range of formal established institutions is an increasing phenom-
enon of contemporary society, and to the extent that modern institutions do not
recognise that the question of trust is focused on them, they only contribute further
to the same 'post-modern' trends.
For as long as universal science is unable to recognise and accommodate such
 Conclusions 219

fundamental pluralism (in the context of ownership, control, and validation, as well
as just of 'application') as legitimate and necessary, 'public understanding of science'
(for which read public identification with science) will remain a dismal story of failure
and retreat. In so far as it can begin to recognise and reflect openly upon its own
deep cultural biases, science may find the latent heat of evaporation of the public
understanding problem to be surprisingly low. The politics of legitimation may be
best conducted by questioning the anxious culture of control.

Some practical considerations

As a final section to these Conclusions, we now need to consider directly the practical
and policy implications of our analysis. Of course, individual chapters have made
detailed suggestions of their own about this. At this stage, we can simply emphasise
some of the more general points.
In particular, the analysis in this book has led us away from a problematisation
of the public as 'misunderstanding' the true nature of science, and towards the notion
that contemporary science and scientific institutions 'misunderstand' their own epi-
stemological limitations but also the public (or 'local') contexts within which they
must operate. This will be an uncomfortable conclusion for the scientific community,
since it suggests a pressing need for debate over the limitations of science as well
as its putative benefits. However, in a situation where public groups more often see
science as an obstacle to development rather than a facilitator, there may be little
choice — unless we are to maintain the present largely sterile discussion between the
defenders of science and those who would wish to reject it for its disenchantment
(and obfuscation) of the world. In making this argument, it is also important to
recognise the changing cultural context within which science must operate - where
claims to authority are likely to be met with an increasingly critical (if not downright
hostile) audience. As Giddens has expressed this:
Lay attitudes towards science, technology and other esoteric forms of expertise, in the
age of high modernity, tend to express the same mixed attitudes of reverence and
reserve, approval and disquiet, enthusiasm and antipathy, which philosophers and social
analysts (themselves experts of sorts) express in their writings. 3

Scientific institutions thus need to go forward with a full recognition of this complex
and dynamic social setting, rather than indulging themselves in versions of the 'deficit
theory' which will prove ww-productive and even counter-QYO&uctivt.
Going further, a major aspect of this process will involve the recognition not only
of the limitations to scientific forms of understanding, but also of the existence of
alternative and more 'local' forms of knowledge and knowledge practice. Whilst these
are sometimes known as 'contextual knowledges', it is important for us to note that
 220 ALAN IRWIN AND BRIAN WYNNE

science also represents a form of contextual knowledge - the context in that case
generally being one of ceteris paribus assumptions and of laboratory-controlled con-
ditions. Once again, rather than attempting to maintain a knowledge hierarchy, the
aim should be to acknowledge and build upon this broader network of knowledge
relations - always accepting that together they can represent a rich and well-tested
body of contextual knowledges.
In all of these steps towards more progressive relationships between knowledge
and citizenship, it will be particularly important to consider the emergence and devel-
opment of new institutional forms which attempt to deal with these issues in a
progressive and imaginative fashion (for example, by bringing together both 'indigen-
ous' and 'formalised' knowledges). Whilst it is not necessarily the case that current
'social experiments' such as those involving science shops, local environmental cam-
paigns, feminist networks, trade union activities, and tenants organisations will con-
sciously address the kinds of issue about science and citizenship which this book has
raised, it may well be that there are important lessons to be learnt here. Whatever
the case, we would argue that such initiatives need to be considered within the kind
of analytical and conceptual framework presented in this volume. They might then
be constructed as 'learning systems' in the fuller sense implied here.
Quite clearly, such localised and specific initiatives struggle to gain credibility
within scientific institutions - being seen as the murky world of politics and direct
action, rather than the preferred and more-cloistered world of science (even though
the politics of this supposedly cloistered world is just as pervasive). More fundamen-
tally, such social experiments in new science-public interactions often succeed only
in re-emphasising the gulf between scientific institutions - and scientific knowl-
edges - and the general public. As one account of a science shop initiative in France
puts it: 'I came to feel that I was trying to convince all parties concerned - the
public, scientists and institutions - of the credibility of something that none of them
wanted. All in all, not a bad version of hell.' 4 As the same commentator notes,
achieving a more productive relationship between science and its publics will involve
far more than the 'de-mystification' of science - it also, as our research has suggested,
requires the establishment and maintenance of progressive relations of knowledge
and citizenship. This will, of course, also involve - in proper context - improvements
in conventional scientific and technical literacy on the part of public groups.
For all the reasons discussed in this book, it is important that science is prepared
to learn from practice in this area rather than seeing it merely as the 'appliance of
science'. Equally, it is important for scientific institutions to recognise that science
is often seen by public groups as a resource for the powerful in society - and against
the everyday interests of the weak. Only deliberate - and deliberately humble -
efforts in this area can begin to address the issues. In the current climate, science
should play an important role within a social dialogue over socio-technical develop-
 Conclusions 221

ment - and not simply resort to the arrogance of a supposed 'higher rationality'.
Such a worldview only serves to reinforce current attitudes of ambivalence, hostility,
and indifference. Even within the framework of technical-economic exploitation of
science it is counter-productive.
In final conclusion, therefore, we wish to emphasise the institutional dimensions
of science and the significance of these for the social legitimation of science. Thus
the practical target of advancing the public understanding of science depends upon
a willingness to facilitate a broader discussion of the contemporary - and changing -
character of science and the relationship between this and wider relations of knowl-
edge and citizenship. This will raise difficult questions about the limitations of scien-
tific understanding, the direction of scientific research, the relationship between
public needs and private profit, and, ultimately, about who should control science.
Now that the discussion over the 'public understanding of science' has been
initiated - and, at least partly, researched - it is important that it should be released
from its orthodox restrictions and developed as a major opportunity for a society-
wide debate of a more fundamental kind than has so far been officially recognised
(even if it is already taking place in an oblique fashion). Scientific institutions - and
individual scientists - have an all-important role to play in these necessary develop-
ments, albeit one which differs markedly from that which has dominated so far.

NOTES

1. Jasanoff, S., The Fifth Branch - science advisers as policymakers (Cambridge, Mass, and
London: Harvard University Press, 1990).
2. See, for example; Beck, U., Risk Society, towards a new modernity (London, Newbury Park,
New Delhi: Sage, 1992). Giddens, A., Modernity and Self-Identity; self and society in the late
modern age (Cambridge: Polity, 1991). For a more thoroughly constructivist view of the
relationships between expert and non-expert cultures, see B. Wynne, 'May the sheep safely
graze? A reflexive view of the expert-lay knowledge divide', in Risk, Environment and
Modernity: towards a new ecology, edited by S. Lash, B. Szerszynski, and B. Wynne
(Newbury Park, Ca, and London: Sage, 1995).
3. Giddens, ibid., p. 7.
4. Stewart, J., 'Science shops in France; a personal view', Science as Culture 2 (1988) 62.
 Notes on contributors

These notes are organised according to chapter order.

ALAN IRWIN is a sociologist with a special interest in issues of science, risk, and
the environment. He is Reader in Sociology at Brunei University. For over a
decade he has been involved with issues of risk assessment, science and technology
policy, sociology of scientific knowledge, and environmental sociology. He has
written Risk and the Control of Technology (Manchester University Press, 1985)
Citizen Science (Routledge, 1995) and various academic publications in this area.
Currently, he is working with Steven Yearley on an ESRC-funded project on
'Regulatory Science'.

BRIAN WYNNE is Professor of Science Studies at Lancaster University where he is

Director of the Centre for Science Studies and Science Policy (CSSSP) and Research
Director of the Centre for Science, Environment and Culture (CSEC). After a first
degree and Ph.D in natural sciences, Brian's earliest work in social studies of science
(for an M.Phil in sociology of science) was in history of early twentieth-century
physics. The distinctive feature of his research approach has been to apply the soci-
ology of knowledge in a symmetrical fashion to both expert and lay knowledges
about, for example, risks, and thus to illuminate both as forms of culture which
embody situated rationalities. Brian was joint-director of a public understanding of
science project at Lancaster. He has published widely on issues of risk, environment,
and science.

ALISON DALE was trained initially as a biochemist and now works with issues of
science and technology policy. The project discussed in Chapter Two developed out
of her postgraduate research into the public dissemination of major hazard infor-
mation. She is now employed as a Research Associate at the University of Manchester
within PREST (Programme of Policy Research in Engineering, Science, and
Technology).

DENIS SMITH is Professor of Management at the University of Durham. He is also

joint Head of the University's Centre for Risk and Crisis Management. Denis
 Notes on contributors 223

Smith's main research interests are in strategic management, risk assessment, crisis
management, and corporate responsibility. He has previously edited a collection on
Business and the Environment: implications of the new environmentalism (London; Paul
Chapman, 1993) and co-edited Waste Location: spatial aspects of waste management,
hazards and disposal (London; Routledge, 1992).

HELEN LAMBERT is Lecturer in Medical Anthropology at the London School of

Hygiene and Tropical Medicine, University of London. She specialises in the
study of health, illness, and medicine in both India and the UK. At the time of
the study on which Chapter Three draws, she was a Research Fellow at the
University of Bradford working with Hilary Rose on a two-year project. Helen
Lambert has published in Social Science and Medicine ('The cultural logic of
Indian medicine' 34,10 (1992) 1069-76) and (together with Klim McPherson) in
a book edited by Basiro Davey and Jennie Popay {Dilemmas in Health Care, Open
University Press, 1993).

PROFESSOR HILARY ROSE is a sociologist of science who has published extensively

in the field of science, technology, and society. She became interested in how
patients make sense of the biomedical science relating to familial hypercholestoro-
laemia after learning that she herself had this genetic disorder. She has published
Love, Power and Knowledge; towards a feminist transformation of the sciences (Polity
Press, 1994).

FRANCES PRICE is a sociologist with a particular interest in expertise and regulation

in biomedical innovation. She is a Senior Research Associate in the Faculty of the
Social and Political Sciences at the University of Cambridge. Her chapter draws on
two phases of fieldwork. The first, funded by the Department of Health, was part of
the National Study of Triplets and Higher Order Births. The second involved inter-
views with men and women attending infertility clinics and their doctors.

MIKE MICHAEL teaches sociology of science at Lancaster University. His chapter

draws upon research conducted with Rosemary McKechnie and Brian Wynne on the
public understanding of ionising radiation. It reflects his abiding interest in discourse
analysis, and is part of a trilogy of papers that have addressed the public understand-
ing of science in relation to the construction of society ('Discourses of danger and
dangerous discourses: patrolling the borders of Nature, Society and Science', Dis-
course and Society, 2,1 (1991) 5-28), and of identity ('Lay discourses of science:
science-in-general, science-in-particular and self, Science, Technology and Human
Values, 17,3 (1992) 3I3-33)-
 224 Notes on contributors

ROSEMARY McKECHNiE is a social anthropologist whose current research interest is

in processes of identification in Europe with special reference to scientific and techni-
cal issues. She is currently a lecturer in social science at the Bath College of Higher
Education.

SHARON MACDONALD is Lecturer in Social Anthropology at Keele University. After

carrying out doctoral research on language and identity in the Scottish Hebrides, she
became a Research Fellow at CRICT (Centre for Research into Innovation, Culture
and Technology) at Brunei University. The ethnographic fieldwork on which Chap-
ter Seven draws was directed by Roger Silverstone, now Professor of Media Studies,
University of Sussex. Results of the research have been published in various journals
including Cultural Studies, Public Understanding of Science, Anthropology in Action,
Publics and Musees, and a special edition of Science as Culture (for which Macdonald
is the guest editor).

STEVEN YEARLEY is Professor of Sociology at the University of York. He has been

doing sociological work on environmentalism for the last ten years, though he also
does research on the sociology of science. His most recent books deal with environ-
mental topics: The Green Case: a sociology of environmental issues, arguments and poli-
tics (Routledge, 1992) and Re-inventing the Globe (Sage: 1996). He is editor for the
Routledge 'Environment and Society' series. Currently, he is studying the inter-
nationalisation of the environmental movement.

HARRY ROTHMAN is Professor of Science and Technology Policy in the Bristol Busi-
ness School, and Co-Director of the Science and Technology Policy Centre
(Sci-Tec). He has published over sixty articles and five books in the area of science
and technology policy, including The Biotechnology Challenge (Cambridge University
Press, 1986). He has been a consultant to a number of international organisations
including UNESCO and has completed a study of the current state of science and
science policy studies in the UK for the Economic and Social Research Council. He
is the founding editor of Technology Analysis and Strategic Management.

PROFESSOR PETER GLASNER, in addition to co-directing Sci-Tec, is Dean of the

Faculty of Economics and Social Science at the University of the West of England,
Bristol. He has written a number of books including Computers, Risks and Hazards
(with D. Travis) published by Routledge. An article on public understanding and the
Human Genome Project has been simultaneously published in French and English as
part of the 1993 European Week of Science and Culture.
 Notes on contributors 225

CAMERON ADAMS was the Research Assistant on the project which forms the basis
of Chapter Nine. He has also carried out work on the NIMBY syndrome and 'green-
ing business enterprise'. He is now conducting research at the Southampton Institute
of Higher Education.
 Select bibliography

Public understanding of science is a relatively new field and also one with ill-defined
boundaries and many interconnections with other areas of analysis and debate. This
highly selective bibliography, which we have restricted to books or book-length
works, is intended to give the reader access to some of the most relevant strands of
research and debate.
A much-quoted example of the perspective of scientists on the public understand-
ing 'problem' is the London Royal Society's 1985 report (Royal Society, 1985). There
are numerous other examples of scientists bemoaning the public 'lack of understand-
ing' and defending the significance of the scientific enterprise - one interesting
account within this broad discourse is Wolpert (1992). An opposite view, critical of
the scientism embodied in conventional scientific perspectives on public culture, but
itself offering rather too-simple a dichotomy between 'the two cultures', is Appleyard
(1992). Schwartz (1992) is a more balanced account from a scientist.
Collins and Pinch (1993) attempt to popularise sociology of scientific knowledge
(SSK) itself, in a book which uses SSK and several illustrations from scientific prac-
tice to argue that public understanding efforts should be focused on what sociologists
and others have learnt about science as a process, rather than upon its cognitive
contents. Layton, Jenkins, Macgill, and Davies (1993) provide case-studies and analy-
sis close to those of the present collection, attempting to avoid the a priori prescrip-
tions embodied in conventional approaches. The collection by Lewenstein offers a
related line of analysis (1992). Myers (1990) provides an interesting basis for thinking
about the forms of communication within science, and beyond it to its publics.
In more historical vein, Layton (1973) has critically examined the programmes of
public education in science in the nineteenth century, identifying their ideological
role in inculcating 'correct' views of much more than just nature itself. This corre-
sponds with more recent work in history of science, for example, Shapin and Schaffer
(1985) and Golinski (1992) which pays attention to the ways in which local knowl-
edge, generated in the privacy of the laboratory, was successfully constructed as
authoritative 'universal' public knowledge. A more wide-ranging work addressing
the gender issue from a broadly similar intellectual perspective is Jordanova's (1989)
historical analysis of'sexual visions'. In highlighting the senses in which social order
and scientific culture were co-produced and mutually validated, these studies res-
 Select bibliography 227

onate with the more contemporary work of Latour (1987). Consistent with Latour's
idea that the scientific laboratory acts as a key organising point of wider sociotechnical
order and power, various authors have begun to examine the role of 'public experi-
ments' and technological 'testing5 in society. Some valuable works of this kind are
collected in Gooding, Pinch, and Schaffer (1989).
LaFollette (1990) reviews popular images of science during the period of develop-
ment of the mass media, from 1910 to 1955. Nelkin (1987) discusses the fundamen-
tally uncritical treatment of science by journalists, even when political stories about
science are being covered. Friedman, Dun woody, and Rogers (1986) offer a collection
of accounts of the construction of science as news in the print media, whilst Sil-
verstone's (1985) case-study remains one of the few sociological analyses of the con-
struction of science for public consumption on television. Of many interpretive treat-
ments of science and technology in popular culture, Tudor (1989) and Winner (1977)
are rewarding. Shinn and Whitley (1985), and Holton and Blanpied (1976) are two
collections with case-studies of the underlying politics of science popularisation.
In exploring the relationships between lay and scientific reasoning, an enormous
literature exists especially in sociology, anthropology, and cognitive psychology. Hol-
land and Quinn (1987) offer several cognitive psychology analyses of lay 'mental
models', whilst Lave (1988) and Rogoff (1990) provide a more anthropological under-
standing of such cognitive-social processes. In modern political arenas such as risk
and environmental controversy, the logic and legitimacy of expert and non-expert
frameworks of knowledge have been critically analysed by authors such as, for
example, Douglas (1986) and Krimsky and Golding (1992). A topical anthropological
study of lay experience and the cultural framing of nuclear technology is Zonabend
(1993). In contexts of Third World development and modernisation, similar tensions
between lay and scientific reasoning arise. Goonatilake's account in Aborted Discovery
(1984) argues that modern Western science has overwhelmed the rich scientific tra-
dition of non-European civilisations.
The politics of democratic involvement in science has been persistently analysed
by Nelkin in several works (for example, 1992). From the extensive field of public
health Burnham (1987) gives a polemical critique of the 'irrationality' of lay thinking,
whilst Helman (1991) gives a more complex and sympathetic treatment from the
experience of an anthropologically trained doctor. Fischer (1990) gives some
examples and analyses attempts at popular participation in science. A somewhat
dated, but still useful, review of public participation in technological decision-making
is provided by the OECD (1979).
Finally, and at a more theoretical level, the work of Ulrich Beck (1992, 1995) has
strong significance for debates around the 'reconstruction' of science within everyday
life. Beck's work is also part of a wider sociological debate about the changing nature
of modernity (for example Giddens 1991; Bauman 1991, Lash, Szerszynski, and
 228 Select bibliography

Wynne 1996) and the role of scientific and 'lay' groups within the new condition of
'late' or 'post' modernity.

REFERENCES

Appleyard, B., 1992, Understanding the Present; science and the soul of modern man (London: Pan).
Bauman, Z., 1991, Modernity and Ambivalence (Cambridge: Polity Press).
Beck, U., 1992, Risk Society; towards a new modernity (London, Newbury Park, New Delhi: Sage).
Beck, U., 1995, Ecological politics in an Age of Risk (Cambridge: Polity Press).
Burnham, J., 1987, How Superstition Won and Science Lost: popularising science and health in the
United States (New Brunswick, N.J.: Rutgers University Press).
Collins, H. and Pinch, T., 1993, The Golem: what everyone should know about science (Cambridge and
New York: Cambridge University Press).
Douglas, M., 1986, Risk Acceptance According to the Social Sciences (New York: Russell Sage
Foundation).
Fischer, F., 1990, Technocracy and the Politics of Expertise (Newbury Park, London and New Delhi:
Sage).
Friedman, S., Dunwoody, S., and Rogers, C. (eds.), 1986, Scientists and Journalists: reporting science
in the news (New York: Free Press).
Giddens, A., 1991, Modernity and Self-Identity (Cambridge: Polity Press, 1991).
Golinski, J., 1992, Science as Public Culture: chemistry and enlightenment in Britain, 1760-1820
(Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press).
Gooding, D., Pinch, T., and Schaffer, S. (eds.), 1989, The Uses of Experiment: studies in the natural
sciences (Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press).
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Haraway, D., 1989, Primate Visions: gender, race and nature in the world of modern science (New York:
Routledge).
Helman, C , 1991, Body Myths (London: Chatto and Windus).
Holland, D., and Quinn, N. (eds.), 1987, Cultural Models in Language and Thought (Cambridge
University Press).
Holton G., and Blanpied W. (eds.), 1976, Science and its Public; the changing relationship (Boston:
Reidel).
Jordanova, L., 1989, Sexual Visions; images of gender in science and medicine between the eighteenth and
twentieth centuries (Brighton: Harvester Wheatsheaf).
Krimsky S. and Golding D. (eds.), 1992, Social Theories of Risk (Westport, Conn, and London:
Praeger).
LaFollette, M., 1990, Making Science our Own: public images of science igio—igss (Chicago and
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new ecology (London: Sage).
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Lave, J., 1988, Cognition in Practice: mind, mathematics and culture in everyday life (Cambridge and
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 Select bibliography 229

Lewenstein, B., When Science Meets the Public (Washington, DC: AAAS, 1992).
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Nelkin, D., 1987, Selling Science (New York: Freeman).
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 Index

acid rain 175-6 Cordy, T. 179

advertising 172-3 Cossons, N. 153
Alar 184-5 Cotgrove, S. and Box, S. 193, 194, 203
alienation 8, 35, 40, 218 Cumbrians Opposed to a Radioactive Environment 34
American Association for the Advancement of Science
4 Dawson, K. 89
animal rights 175 deficit model 10, 48, 109, 136, 154
Ardener, E. 136, 147 Department of the Environment (DoE) 178
Armstrong, D. 86 Department of Trade and Industry (DTI) 209
Arnold, L. 24 'disappearing science' 12-13, 48—9, 52, 57, 62, 78,
'arrogance theory' 27 192-3, 203-4
Association of Scientific Workers 4, 5 discourse analysis 107
audiences 14-15 Douglas, M. 88
Durant, J. 20, 108
Bailey, F. G. 43
Baker, J. R. 200 EC Committee on Economic and Monetary Affairs
Becher, T. 129 and Industrial Policy 205
Beck, U. 59, 85, 100, 176-7, 180-1, 182, 187-8 (see Edwards, R. 88, 89
also modernity and late-modernity) Ellis, N. D. 193
Berg, M. 3 emergency planning 60, 214
Bernal, J. D. 195 Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) 185-6, 187
Beveridge, A. A. and Rudell, F. 108 environmentalism 172-88
Black, Sir Douglas 22-3 ethnography 129-30
Bourdieu, P. 142, 143-4 everyday knowledge 8
Bovine Spongiform Encephalopathy (BSE) 2, 5, 7
Brenner, S. 99-100 Familial Hypercholesterolaemia (FHC) 65-82
bricolage 55, 143, 195 Family Heart Association 69
British Nuclear Fuels Ltd 27, 31, 181 flue gas desulphurisation 184
Burke, P. 43 food 156—66
Food and Agriculture Research 195, 197-9
Callon, M. 42, 129—30, 132-3 Foucault, M. 84
Campbell, S. 93 Friends of the Earth (FoE) 27, 177, 181, 182, 184
Central Electricity Generating Board (CEGB) 175 Funtowicz, S. and Ravetz, J. 39
Chernobyl 19, 21, 22, 24, 27-35, II0 > I2&-> I3° ?J34> Furness, M. E. 98
136, 137, 144, 145
chlorofluorocarbons (CFCs) 174, 181 Galli, I. and Nigro, C. n o
citizenship 63, 154, 155, 220 Garfinkel, H. 98-9
Clutterbuck, D. and Craimer, S. 195-6 Geertz, C. 135
Code, L. 96 Giddens, A. 43, 219
Collins, H. 194 global warming 182
Common Agricultural Policy 177 Gouldner, A. W. 193
'common sense' 135— 6 Green Party 172
'conspiracy theory' 25, 27, 39 Greenpeace 23, 145, 174, 175, 181-2, 183
contextual knowledge 219— 20 Grove, J. W. 199
 Index 231

Haldane, J. B. S. 3, 9, 195 modernity and late modernity 3, 16, 20, 21, 43, 126,
Halliday, M. A. K. 117 146-7, 176, 182, 183, 187-8, 216-17, 218 (see also
Harding, S. 43 Beck, U.)
Hartshorne, J. 88 Moscovici, S. 109-10
Health and Safety Executive (HSE) 23, 49, 54
Herzfeld, M. 138 National Childbirth Trust (NCT) 96-7
Heysham 127 National Radiological Protection Board (NRPB) 34
Hobsbawn, E. J. and Ranger, T. 43 Natural Resources Defense Council (NRDC) 185
House of Commons Select Committee on Agriculture Nature Conservancy Council (NCC) 178
2 Nelkin, D. 204
House of Lords Select Committee on Science and NERC 198, 205, 207-8
Technology 205 North Sea Community Project 195, 197-8, 207-8
Howard, B. J. and Beresford, N. A. 22 nuclear power 1-2, 5, 7, 8, 118-19, 174, 184, 185 (see
Human Genome Project 68, 99-100, 205 also Chernobyl, Sellafield-Windscale)
Hyde, B. 94
Oakley, A. 92
implicit knowledge 77— 8
in vitro fertilisation (IVF) 88-92, 98-9 Paine, R. 136
Pasveer, B. 86
industrial expertise 62
Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC) Pateman, C. 85
182 Perutz, M. 6
ionising radiation 126 Petchesky, R. P. 92
Irvine, J. and Martin, B. 197, 205 Pfeffer, N. 88
Isle of Man 126— 47 Plantlife 177
Polanyi, M. 197, 199-200, 210
pollution concerns 47-64
Jasanoff, S. 39, 185-6, 187, 218 power and powerlessness 63, 109, 129, 139
Jupp, A. 41 precautionary principle 183
Protein Engineering Club (PEC) 195, 197-8, 200-4,
Knorr-Cetina, K. 39, 126 206-7, 208, 209
Kornhauser, W. 193 public ignorance 6, 9, 14, 61, 64, 77, 107-23, 139,
154
public irrationality 2
Lacey, R. 2
public knowledge 8, 12, 13, 20, 26-7, 35— 9, 43, 47—8,
Lancaster City Council 117
64, 77-8, 80-2
Latour, B. 42, 130
public scepticism 9, 12, 29-31, 55, 56, 60, 62, 154
Layton, D. 3
legal review 185-6, 187-8
Quinn, N. and Holland, D. n o
Lewenstein, B. 154
local knowledge 48, 63, 130-47, 214
radon 114-23
locality 50, 126-7
Ravetz, J. 112
Lowe, P. and Morrison, D. 184
Reagan, R. 173
Lynch, M. 86
reflexive modernisation 176, 185, 187-8
Lyon, D. 84
Reiser, S. 86
Renn, O. 41
McCormick, J. 182 risk and acceptability 90—
2
Macgill, S. 22 risk and culture 88
McSorley, J. 22 Rothschild Report 196
Marine Conservation Society 177 Royal Society 4-6, 12, 20, 47, 48, 49, 53, 57, 69,
mass media 4, 5, 40, 69, 71-2, 143, 152, 184-5, 187-8 108-9, X54, 155—6, 158, 160, 195
mental models 108, 109, 110-11, 195 Royal Society for Nature Conservation (RSNC) 173,
methodological situationalism 126 177-9, 180, 181
Milne, L. S. and Rich, O. J. 93 Royal Society for the Protection of Birds (RSPB) 177,
Ministry of Agriculture, Fisheries and Food (MAFF) 178-9, 180, 183
27, 30, 31, 33, 36, 122, 145
Miringoff, M. L. 100 'Save British Science' 192
 232 Index

science: and anti-science 7; and authority 13, 86-7, Southwood, R. 2

107, 133-4, I39? 163-4; and commercialisation sponsorship 166
204-8; and control 19, 26; and controversy 63, 163, Stacey, M. 71
194; and ignorance 14, 25-7, 34, 36; and Star, S. L. and Griesemer, J. 39
institutional neurosis 6-7; and legitimation 7, 9, Stewart, A. et al. 92
12—13, 16, 35, 49, 59— 60, 62, 136, 174-5, 221; a n d Stewart, N. 92
sense-making 9, 13, 65; and social interests 3, 35, Strathern, M. 100
48, 63; and uncertainty 2, 20, 26, 32, 60, 81, 85, 86, Strong, C. 92
145
science and technology studies 16 Thatcher, M. 155
science communication 152-3, 214 top—down model 9, 48
science policy makers 191-211 trust and credibility 2, 3, 9, 12, 13, 20, 31, 32, 35—
44,
science shops 220 49, 53-8, 60-1, 69, 126, 185, 186, 217, 218
scientific institutions 7, 10, 15, 21, 43-4, 53-4, 126, Tynwald 127, 128, 140-2
147, 214-15, 220-1
Sellafield-Windscale 19, 21-24, 27— 40, 91, 114, Ulster Wildlife Trust (UWT) 179, 180, 186
118-23, 127, 128, 130-7, 143, 144-5 ultrasound 92-8
Shotter, J. and Gergin, K. 43 unemployment 51-2
Site of Special Scientific Interrest (SSSI) 178 useful knowledge 213—16
situated knowledge 80-2
Smithson, M. 112-13, 120, 121 Wetherell, M. and Potter, J. 113
social body language 38 whales 183
social identity 1, 14, 20, 26, 27, 35-6, 39"44, 107-8, Williams, Raymond 9
114, 115, 123, 126, 128-9 Williams, Roger 196
social representation theory 109— 10
social survey research 16, 41-2, 50, 62, 108— 9, 216-17 Ziman, J. 70
sociology of scientific knowledge (SSK) 7-8, 16, 39 Zonabend, F. 144, 145